


A Shipless Ocean

by myswordfishmind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myswordfishmind/pseuds/myswordfishmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after the fall Sherlock goes back to London to find that John no longer lives there. Instead, he resides in a seaside town, a widower, and the father of a seven year old son. Now, Sherlock must struggle with the fact that there may no longer be a place for him in this new world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by "song to the siren" by Tim Buckley

_Wounds made at sea heal inland,_

_But wounds made inland are cured by the sea._

      - Spanish saying

 

Sherlock times it perfectly. Not so soon that people are too sober to be overly cautious with their stash, but not so late that they are too strung out that they don’t think to offer the young, handsome guy a line or two. He is twenty-two, and money is tight, cut off by Mycroft months ago when it became obvious that Sherlock was too far gone to be responsible enough to choose food over blow, even willing, now, to sacrifice his solitude for a score.

When he arrives, the house party is in full swing, and it doesn’t take long for Sherlock to infiltrate a group of college students doing lines off aluminium paper through a crisp, rolled-up twenty fresh from the ATM. It’s reached the point when the lines are almost half a gram long, and Sherlock won’t be surprised when one of the girls overdoses by the end of the night, but he doesn’t even think to care; that won’t be his responsibility. Usually, the only dose of free drugs a person can manage is a swipe at a passed-around spliff, but Sherlock tried that once and never again, hating the way it disintegrated his thoughts, crumbling the letters into amnesic dust, his cognitive process slowed to the point that even time lost meaning and a strange, thick-tongue aphasia took over. But for Sherlock it’s ridiculously easy to manipulate them into offering him a taste of white powder; a few charming smiles and softened eyes, a pair of dry, dirty jokes, and Sherlock is in, his skin a coat of faux sheep hair, disguising his claws and sharp teeth. He extracts himself soon after, lighting a cigarette and collapsing into a couch, letting the ash fall to the dirty floor. His heart is speeding up, and he can feel it in his throat, the neurons behind his eyes firing in a wild tempo, and he goes over the equations he had been trying to break at home, nimbly twisting numbers and Xs and Ys into coherent order. Normally, his mind tries to speed at a pace he can hardly control, and the ideas balloon through white and grey matter, suffocating him, until he needs some other kind of stimulation to keep up, to ground his brain into flesh and keep it from dissipating up into philosophical space. The violin had been enough, for a while, something to keep the wild parts of his mind in order, orchestrating the thought process into something manageable. Cigarettes took off the edge, a burst to help his brain catch up to his thoughts, keeping his restless hand occupied, but soon it hadn’t been enough. But cocaine, oh, it was perfect, the rush, the focus, the heart that raced to the beat of his thoughts. If only he could get some soluble solution, he’d be set.

The gears in his cold, mechanical brain are whirling madly as he sits, the cigarette now smoke and ash, burning his bottom lip as he takes the last drag, when he feels the couch dip beside him. He tries to ignore it, but an arm is pressing again his, too close, far too close, and he turns to look at an emaciated looking girl, her blond hair sweaty at the temples, falling from the bun on her head to frame her face in wisps. She’s intoxicated with a mixture of cocaine and valium, a delicious highlow he would get to know soon.

“You look lonely,” she says, and Sherlock calculates how soon he can leave without ruining his chances of scoring here again. He says nothing, and the girl sighs, leaning her head back, exposing her throat. Suddenly, with an intoxicated lack of preamble, she asks, “If the world were ending, who would you think about?” Sherlock stares at her, through the music and the high, trying to dampen his irritation.

“ _Who_ would I think about? Why would I think of anyone? Wouldn’t it be more conductive to attempt to stop this metaphorical end of civilization?” Sherlock drawls. The girl laughs.

“No, man, those are the rules of the game. The world is ending, you can’t stop it. Who would you think about?” Sherlock pauses in the ridiculousness of the question.

“I wouldn’t think of anybody. What would be the point?” he replies. The girl roles her head to look at him, opening her eyes to eyelash-framed slits.

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, sounding like she means it. Sherlock raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. Half an hour, he calculates, until he can leave without drawing attention to himself.

Sound fills the silence that falls between them. The question drifts away from Sherlock’s conscious mind. The music, the moving bodies, the chemical imbalances and collection of puzzles and patters, they go on. When Sherlock leaves, the query is all but forgotten, and yet it remains, unerased, in his mind palace, like an unresolved equation which surfaces to nag him from time to time. But it is a nonsensical question.

_Who would you think about_

_if the world were ending?_


	2. Chapter One

Sleep eludes him. Every patch of him is sandpaper and raw, untangled thought. The point has been reached in which rest is so foreign that reality is the dream, and slumber an incomprehensible concept.

It has been ten years, three weeks, six days.

The airplane window is cool and trembles against the skin on his forehead. On the other side the sky is nothing but the pregnant pause of grey cloud. Below, the green mounds of Britain stretch on, fragmented by veins of tarmac and peppered with the toy-like structures of suburban houses. The only sign of human life are the gliding cars, moving like parasites on some great, drowsing creature. The sight of the green land, despite its long absence from his life, is not a stranger. Instead it unfurls a bone-deep familiarity within him that is almost painful. _Nostalgia_ , Sherlock thinks. _How quaint._ And yet the very thought of London’s approaching soul is a relief to a need he hadn’t even been aware of. He wonders how many things will have changed since his departure. Billions, he calculates, but so few of consequence he could hold them like marbles on the palm of his hand.

The untangling of Moriarty’s web is, without a doubt, his greatest masterpiece. Every waking moment since both their deaths had but that one purpose, obsession, desire. Even the fitfulness of his sleep was dedicated to the cause. It had been a chess game in reverse: first the king, and then his court and castle. If the dead man’s purpose had been to devise a game to test Sherlock then the goal had been met. All of his intellect, fortitude, sanity: everything, for ten years, three weeks, six days, had been slave to the memory the man had left behind, to his tangible ghost. It had made of him not only a strategist, but a hunter.

Despite what many thought, he had never killed before this.

Moriarty couldn’t have left a better or more devastating legacy.

That it was now over was like the punch line to an incomprehensible joke. He wanted to laugh, but at what? It seemed a lifetime ago since he was perched at the edge of the world, a phone pressed against his ear. He remembers crying, and a familiar voice. And the fear. The fear that-

But, no, that is over. _Done_. The concept has such a sweet taste that he closes his eyes to savour it.

There is a chiming sound as the seatbelt sign lights, and a disembodied voice announces the descent to Gatwick. He curls a little into himself, anticipating the imminent, cold rush of London.

 _Home_ , Sherlock thinks.

The smile that unfurls is bitter to the tongue.

 

....**...

 

The English autumn weather is a shock to Sherlock's system, who has spent much of the last few years near the equator, where there is rain but no real cold. Moriarty hadn’t pissed where he ate, as the saying goes, and much of his web had tangled in what most Europeans would call exotic lands, where the judicial system was corrupt, fragmented with cracks perfect enough for a man like Moriarty. Now, the slicing wind that reddens the tips of Sherlock’s ears and nose reminds him of childhood outings, and nights at dark crime scenes in which the cold was easily ignored in favour of a bloody corpse. Sherlock is bundled in a thick, feather-stuffed coat, purposefully chosen as something outside his usual attire to fend off low temperatures, a both cautious and optimistic precaution lest John somehow recognise him. Sherlock knows better, however; he would have to be on John’s mind in order to be spotted, and that clearly isn’t the case. 

The English town he finds himself in couldn’t be more different from the bustling life of London. Small and quiet, suffused with the smell of the sea and the fish and chip shops that occupy virtually every corner, it is a place to retire, or to bring up children, a place bereft of the dangers and speed of a capital city. Sherlock has tracked John to the seaside place with a sinking heart, for every mile away from 221b Baker Street is a step away from a life in which Sherlock has a place to return. Foolishly, though it defies Sherlock's usual logic, in his absence he had imagined John as he had been, framed by the walls of their old home, as if captured by a still photograph, static and unchanging. But that is not the case. Time, as usual, has been treacherous and betrayed Sherlock, and the man he observes from across the street is a changed specimen. John walks down the street with a smile on his face, which is familiar enough, but the deepened wrinkles that crease like the imprints of crow’s feet by his eyes, the curious tilt of his head as he listens to his companion, a novel habit he must have picked up by a new and loved acquaintance, the thick scarf around his neck which he had never favoured before, all tell Sherlock a story of moments he is blind and deaf to, of people that have nourished John in Sherlock's absence, of laughs and miseries that have marked his face and his hands, now gloved but surely as different as the new depth in his eyes. And then, of course, there is the little boy by John’s side. Seven years in age, Sherlock would wager, with hair darker than John’s, and a slim frame that suggests he will outgrow him, but with the same colour of eyes, the same chin, the same nose, and, most shocking of all, the same mannerisms in his hands and face as he shares an anecdote, no doubt about a schoolyard incident which had turned out favourably for him. Despite the fact that they are not holding hands, it is clear that John is keeping a watchful eye on him, and that what Sherlock is spying on is a conversation between father and son. It is hard to look away from that strange child, composed of John’s blood and genes, mixed with some unknown factor, some foreign being that had infiltrated John’s life when Sherlock had left it, and had created this, those laugh lines around him mouth, and that tilted head, and that child.  The very idea seems utterly ridiculous to Sherlock, that John’s life has changed so utterly, that he is now a father, and widow no doubt, that much is obvious from the way he and his son interact, added to the fact that John has been the one to pick up the child from school every school day Sherlock has watched him, despite having a full-time job at the hospital. He has been following and watching John’s routine for almost a fortnight now, and anyone who knows Sherlock could guess this is a ridiculous amount of time to spend gathering data, and speaks to the fact that he seems to be waiting for something else to be revealed, as if he can’t quite believe that this is it, that John is this man, so apart from the person Sherlock had seemed to know. Surely his character has not morphed, but in the face of such changes that seems a small consolation for the unsettling fear that Sherlock can’t seem to shake off, no matter how much logic he throws at it. The fact is that the hole Sherlock had left ten years ago has been covered firmly with graveyard dirt, and he suddenly doubts his ability to dig himself to the surface. When they had first met all those years ago, John had been open-ended, leaving space for Sherlock to join, but now he has a family, or at least half of a broken one, and Sherlock doubts there is space for the resurrection of a dead friend. And yet there he still is, before seeing Lestrade, or Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson, or even Molly, who knows he is alive, looking at the man he once knew, and at his son, which he does not. He wonders if his return will really fix anything which had been broken in the fall, or if it will cause further destruction. There are dozens of possible reactions to Sherlock suddenly appearing in John’s life, most of them involving some harm coming to his face, very probably to his nose, despite what Miss Adler suggested once. But Sherlock is not one to turn away from chaos in the pursuit of knowledge, and if Sherlock's return will be met by anger or relief only one course of action can answer.

 

...**...

 

It is half past ten, and Sherlock knows that John’s son will be in bed whilst John remains awake, confirmed by the lights glowing from John’s kitchen and living room windows, whilst the bedrooms’ remain desolated and opaque. Sherlock stares at the now all-too-familiar front door from across the street. He is donned in a coat in the same style as the one he used to wear when he lived in London, a token of familiarity to put John at ease.

He doubts it will work.

Both the cold and a deep exhaustion born from years of living in the shadows has left Sherlock with an odd numbness, as if autopsied from his fear and caution. In truth, he has nothing left to lose. He blinks slowly at the house he must now face before crossing the silent street, accompanied only by the sound of rustling leaves and the cry of a seagull in the distance, apparently confused as to the time of day. Absentmindedly he notes, by the state of the front porches and what little he can see inside the houses surrounding him, that the husband of the residence two doors down from John’s has found out his wife is having an affair, though in cowardice hasn’t confronted her about it, though an explosion is imminent; that the child three houses down to the left is being bullied at school, which is causing his parents to be unduly soft on him, which can only end badly; that the house with the pear tree at the back has a newborn child, though the mother is suffering from post-natal depression; that two doors down from that the dog, probably a terrier, is terrorizing the neighbour, the latter of which are too British to do much more about it than be passive aggressive. He dismisses this information impatiently from his mind with a wave of an imaginary hand, as if trying to rid himself of the annoyance of flies. He must not be distracted from the task at hand. Before he can think twice about it, his gloved knuckles have knocked sharply on the wood of John’s front door with a confidence he forces himself to feel. One must not show weakness, he has learnt these past years, even in the moments of tenuous solitude, for a person’s worst enemy is often themselves.

And yet, Sherlock notes, it is suddenly difficult to breathe.

The door opens.

He has not been this physically close to John since the day of the fall, a fight inside Bart’s.

_You machine!_

(but he feels soft and exposed, now)

 

John’s face is cast in shadow, but Sherlock can still make out the expression decorating it. The widened eyes, the parted lips, a startled, instinctive hand coming up between them as if to ward off harm, the white-knuckled grip of the other hand on the door-frame, fighting the reaction to slam the thing closed. He is dressed in a soft-looking jumper, but his pose is nothing so welcoming. But his eyes, _his eyes_ , they are the exact same shade of blue he left, and that had lived in his imaginings all these years, and Sherlock feels the first spark of true emotion all night; fear, or desperation. He pictures what John must be seeing; his slim and tall figure darkened by the black coat, the collar pulled up in reminiscence of an old conversation; his skin, tanned slightly from his time abroad, is nonetheless sallow from malnutrition, and his lower eyelids are bruised from the abuse of sleeplessness, a habit his body has been unable to shake off. His hair, long enough to curl down the nape of his neck and around his ears, is recently washed but completely uncared for, and moves like medusa’s snakes in the wind. For a moment John seems to fall for the enchantment, remaining perfectly still in his surprise, before being electrocuted into action, tumbling sideways to knock over a small table that had stood beside the door, smashing a bowl containing keys and change on the floor. The noise of it seems thunderous, and Sherlock avoids wincing out of sheer force of will.

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, but the word seems to be taken as an attack. He watches the details of John shift and retract; follows the path of his lips which form empty words out of rapid breath, the narrowing shape of his eyes, the hand that touches ever so briefly at the small of his back, as if searching for a gun, the straightening of his shoulders and the widening of his legs, a soldier’s reaction to danger. Sherlock feels a sudden and almost overwhelming wave of relief. This is his John, the man who knows the grainy, metallic taste of a fight.

“No. No. I saw you. I _saw you_ , you aren’t him, Sherlock is dead, he’s, he’s...who are you?”  John says in a quick tumble, glaring at the ghost before him.

“John-”

“No, _who are you!?”_ He bellows. Sherlock doesn’t flinch, but the leather of his gloves make a creaking sound as his fists clench.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says simply, having not the strength nor the foolishness for a smarter reply. But John shakes his head, making the light on his hair jump from strand to strand.

“No, that-” but whatever he was going to say is interrupted as a small form donned in blue pyjamas stumbles between them.

“ _Leave my dad alone!_ ” The child shouts with a volume and vehemence that shocks even Sherlock, who stares at the small boy, at his familiar and unfamiliar features, at the pure anger and fear, and feels, in a place inside himself so deep underwater that the light never reaches, a feeling of sudden despair. All his life, he has never fit in anywhere, and he would be completely truthful in saying he had never cared. He had observed the machinations and dances of the people around him with detached disdain, wondering how they so blindly let themselves open to social situation which are so obviously, nonsensically without true benefit, simply to temporarily patch up their feelings of loneliness. He had never wanted for that, and had never imagined he would sacrifice so much for any group of people, and yet he, of all people, had spent the last ten years doing exactly that. He, Sherlock Holmes, he thought incredulously, had given up his life to assure the life and happiness of _friends_. But as the saying goes,

_No good deed goes unpunished,_

And the truth is that the very people he had fought to protect did not need him, and had formed their own lives, and had found new people to protect, and to be protected by, and Sherlock, who had foolishly assumed otherwise,

is alone.

“Think whatever you like of me, John, but at the very least admit the reality of things; that I am, in fact, Sherlock Holmes, and alive, and here before you. Those are the facts, with which you can do as you please,” Sherlock says with a sudden burst of defensive anger, which nonetheless dissolves quickly as he looks at John’s face. There is a long moment of silence in which John puts his hands on his son’s shoulders and gathers him close. Sherlock does not break eye contact, and finally, finally, something shifts in John’s expression, and he steps back slightly, taking the boy with him.

“Ok. Come...come in. Just, stay there,” he says.

“But dad!” the boy in his arms says, looking up.

“Ssh, come on, Samson, off to bed. He...I know him. We can talk about it in the morning, but you have school tomorrow. It’s ok. Here, let’s go,” John says, steering him by the shoulders. He glances briefly at Sherlock, who has stepped inside the warm house and shut the door quietly behind him without a word. He tilts his head slightly as if in assurance to a silent query, and John moves away with Samson. Sherlock stands, immobilized, where he is left, though his eyes dart around in appraisal of the place. The bungalow is quite ordinary. A living room lies to the right, the walls lined with books, many of them appearing to be medical texts and, Sherlock notes in surprise, some of his old criminology tombs. There is a coffee table in the middle, strewn with medical journals, a cup of tea, and some toys, around which are a pair of armchairs and a long sofa which undoubtedly turns into a bed, knowing John’s practicality. A TV draws the attention of the furniture, its back to a wall on which hangs a seascape painting. On the left of Sherlock is an attached kitchen forming a wide U shape, containing a small dining room table to the side. There are knick knacks, toys, and framed pictures everywhere. Sherlock finally moves to pick up one of the latter, and for the first time has a glimpse at the life John led without him. Fossilized on glossy paper is the un-posed forms of three people making a sand-castle at the beach; John, who is smiling and completely untroubled, kneels beside a misshapen mound of sand and is looking opposite him with an open, cheerful expression, at a good looking woman holding a very small child in her arms. She, too, is smiling, though the pallor of her skin, even under the sun, suggests she is not completely healthy. The picture has nonetheless captured a moment of true, casual happiness, with hair matted by sea and salt, and sand clouding skin, but beautiful nonetheless. Sherlock puts the frame down, and turns it away from him. When he looks up, John is standing at the entrance of the hallway which undoubtedly leads to the bedrooms, looking dumbstruck. Sherlock takes a small step forward towards him, but John takes a step back, raising his hands as if to defend himself. Sherlock straightens, and masks his expression, though inside he feels the tightening of apprehension.

“How?” John says finally. Sherlock feels a diluted sense of relief; a chance to explain himself is a positive sign. And so he does. With a level, calm voice, he tells John the story which, though not exactly rehearsed, has lived unsaid in his mind for a very long time. He tells of the last moments they were together, and what happened after that; the conversation on the roof, Moriarty’s suicide, an act typically impulsive of psychopathic individuals which tend to have underdeveloped frontal lobes, areas of the brain responsible, amongst other things, for inhibition and executive functions.  And then the choice, the only one he could make, between fake and real death; what would anybody choose?

“I knew that Moriarty was not bluffing, we had witnessed the presence of the assassins ourselves. And thus I had two choices; to die myself, or to let Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and you die. Either of those would mean victory for Moriarty. Of course, I chose the third option; to fake my death in order to ensure both your and my own protection,” Sherlock explains, standing tensely, though John had collapsed into one of the tall stools beside the breakfast bar of the kitchen. He is still staring at Sherlock in numb denial, and Sherlock knows that if he were to leave without a word, John could convince himself that this had all been a dream.

“And all this time...What were you doing? Why come back now? It’s been ten years! Why not before- a message, anything, anything to let me know you were alive!” John says, not raising his voice for Samson’s sake, but instead whispering the words harshly.

“I was methodically tracking down Moriarty’s criminal army and disabling it in order to ensure that my return would not mean your death. Which is why it was impossible to contact you; if I were found out, it would all have been for nothing, and I would have lost.”

John blinks slowly at Sherlock, as if truly seeing him for the first time. “Lost? So...this was a game. Another one of your games,” he says lowly. Sherlock pauses.

“If that is what you wish to believe, though I cannot say it has been much fun.” Sherlock himself, however, does not know if these words are exactly true. His quest for Moriarty’s complete destruction had not been fun, no, but it had been exhilarating. A puzzle that took a decade to solve; wasn’t that what Sherlock had always hoped for? And yet he knew that though this line of reasoning would convince almost anybody who knew him, it wasn’t completely true. In truth, Sherlock had grown tired, though that seemed a completely inadequate word to describe the desolation, the exhaustion, the numbness and cold of being alone and on the kill for so very long. It had been _tedious_ in the end, painful, desperate, and Sherlock knew, though he may deny it, that it was not only his pride and competitive nature which had stopped him from simply embracing his death and disappearing to some distant land under a pseudonym to live out the rest of his days; it was the fact that the only course of action that could have lead Sherlock back to this moment, in this house, with this man, was to keep going. To stop would have meant never seeing London, and all that signified, ever again.

And that, even in the darkest of his sleepless nights, had never seemed a viable option.

John sits on the stool, searching Sherlock's face with an expression filled with incomprehension and sadness. Slowly, he unravels from the chair, and approaches Sherlock with animal caution. Sherlock can feel his heart speeding slightly as if it belonged to somebody else, but he looks at John, at the soft angles of his face, at the chapped lips and curled and fair eyelashes, and drinks him in, the composition of cells that form life. John stops as he reaches Sherlock, and with the same unhurried and deliberate pace he lifts one hand and places the tips of his finger against Sherlock's chest, pressing just enough so that it can be felt through the coat. Sherlock's eyelashes flutter once, slightly, and he feels- _something_ , a soaring impression of fear, a sensation akin to the loosening of a limb which has been clenched for far too long, both painful and a sweet relief.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” John says softly, looking up at Sherlock, who says nothing. “I don’t know whether to punch or hug you.”

“I would rather the latter,” Sherlock says, the words simply slipping out, and he can feel his expression open, tire, surrender. John’s arms twitch as if to do just that, but he stays still, and for a long time they remain silent, John’s fingers pressed against Sherlock, assimilating to the reality of each other’s presence.

“Is it over, then? Are you...back for good?” John asks finally. Sherlock nods, and then clears his throat and answers,

“Yes.” Then, there, on John’s face, a slight smile, small but real, and an arm comes up to grip Sherlock's shoulder, who closes his eyes briefly at the pressure, before John retracts and moves away. Sherlock takes a deep breath, and knows exactly what John is thinking, and what he is feeling, and that Sherlock must give him some space to process the information he has been given.

“I should go. You have an early shift tomorrow, so I shouldn’t keep you,” he says with somewhat false consideration.

“How did you...right,” John says, and chuckles slightly, shaking his head.

“If you are amenable, I would like to see you tomorrow,” Sherlock goes on stiffly, and John jerks slightly in surprise, either because of the reality of Sherlock leaving or coming back tomorrow.

“Yeah, of course. Samson has Beavers tomorrow from six ‘til eight so...there is a cafe on the St Clement’s strip, called Bean Around the World. We could meet there at six thirty,” John suggests, still looking out-of-sorts, as if he could spring up at any moment and either punch or crush Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock almost wishes for either, instead of the mental block John seems to be suffering from, but he simply nods. He stands there for a moment longer, staring at John before turning around and walking towards the door.

“Sherlock, wait,” John calls out as Sherlock steps outside, who turns around with a questioning glance.

“I...I’m glad you’re alive,” John says quietly. Sherlock pauses, searching for what John could really mean, but nods when he finds nothing else but sentiment. The air is cold and howling as he closes the door beside him, but there is smile on Sherlock's face.

He, too, is glad to be alive.

 

...**...

 

The sea is in complete disarray as Sherlock approaches the bay. He knows that, here, the strong winds and tides create a peculiar phenomenon causing a higher rate of sea storms than in the rest of Great Britain, including Wales and the Channel Islands, causing great difficulty for the use of boats, especially the relatively small fishing boats typical of other English areas. The waters here are tempestuous and erratic, and are left desolate of exterior life, few brave enough to face the torrential weather and perfidious waves. Sherlock ducks away from the sound of the wailing wind as he enters the coffee shop, spotting a man who has recently lost a familiar, probably a Grandparent, a young woman sinking in her gap year between Sixth Form and college, considering sociology or possibly psychology as her future major, the barista, who is clearly thinking of quitting his job come the new year, in a typically ridiculous resolution, and finally John, tucked away in a corner in a protective gesture, his hands forced still around a cup of what is undoubtedly tea; milk, no sugar. John looks up as the door opens and for a moment looks startled to see Sherlock, before the expression melts away to an unsure smile. Sherlock nods at him slightly before walking towards the till as he slides his gloves from his hands in order to purchase a drink, not because he is in the mood for a hot beverage, but because he knows it will put John at ease. After collecting his quickly made tea he walks over to John’s table, ignoring the soft music and cheerful sound of conversation in order gauge John’s mood; apprehensive, blindsided still by Sherlock's resurrection, upset and troubled, but eager to talk, if the way he leans forward as Sherlock sits down is a sign of anything.

“Hello,” Sherlock says calmly, and abstains from pointing out John’s surprise at seeing him; clearly he still hasn’t completely accepted the reality of Sherlock's return. That, however, only time can really remedy.

“Hi,” John says unsurely, opening his mouth as if to say something further but stopping, seemingly at a loss for words. Sherlock smiles slightly.

“You have questions,” he says, and John laughs, the sound short but bright, as if it were shocked from him.

“You could say that. But there are also some things I need to tell you first,” he replies, expression sobering. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and John sighs, the hands around his mug clenching and unclenching once.

“How are you?” John says after a pause. _Is that what you really wanted to say?_ Almost slips out of Sherlock, but he tempers the words.

“Better,” he says instead, though he regrets it instantly as he sees concern engage in John.

“Better? What does that mean, where you not well before?” John asks, and Sherlock shrugs slightly, not wanting to delve into emotional matters. He has always preferred hard facts.

“Being back in England is a relief,” he says, substituting the other millions of reasons he could have given for his choice of words. John stares at him, before nodding slowly.

“I guess it would be,” he says quietly. There is another pause, this one stretching longer, but Sherlock is not inclined to break it. Finally, the other man speaks. “You know, for a long time I pictured this exact moment. What I would do if you were alive, what I would tell you...” he trails off.

“Well, now you have the chance,” Sherlock says, and his tone renders the words callous, though he does not mean to. John doesn’t seem to take offence, and runs the tip of his finger around the rim of his cup twice. If it were a crystal glass with a sufficiently thin rim John’s finger would ring out a C sharp, judging by the amount of liquid remaining.

“I...I’ve missed you,” John says, his voice low, and he looks at Sherlock steadfastly, as if to say that it is an admission of loss and want as much as blame. There are many things Sherlock could reply to that, though only one simple and truthful enough to be of use, but he is muted by the opposing forces that often conquer him, creating his own sea storm. In the tangible silence, John goes on. “I...the last time, well, the last time we spoke face-to-face...I said some things I regretted, and have regretted for a long time. When I called you a machine-”

“John-” Sherlock tries to interrupt, but John cuts him off with a slicing gesture from his hand.

“No, please, let me finish. I need to say this.” Sherlock closes his mouth, tilting his head, and John sighs. “When I said you were a machine, I didn’t mean it. And by that I mean that I let my emotions overtake me in that moment, but I knew better. I knew that despite what people like Anderson and Sally claimed, you were not as cold as you liked others to believe, but much more human than even you wanted to admit, and I...as your friend, I should have...I should have known that there was something wrong, but acted like everybody else; I assumed, instead of deducing, and for that I’m deeply sorry. I...should have been a better friend,” John says, tapering off in the end, eyes staring into his now cold tea.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sherlock says simply, struck for the millionth time in his life by how utterly illogical emotions can render people. John jerks his head up and opens his mouth, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“John, that lie was tailored specifically for you, to get you out of the way. The only reason it worked was because you care enough about people to become emotional when someone you love is hurt, and in the face of not only my refusal to go see Mrs. Hudson in the hospital, but my obvious lack of concern for her, it was a natural reaction. I was acting like a machine, so it was only natural that you perceived me as such. It was not your emotions, nor your ability as a friend, that failed you, it was your logic, and that fails everybody. I used not your faults to get you out of the way, but your virtues. So stop being so illogical now,” Sherlock replies quickly. John stares at him.

“Sherlock-”

“Oh, fine, fine,” Sherlock says, waving a hand as if dislodging John’s concerns, “Apology accepted, if it will speed things along.”

John purses his lips, pinching the bridged of his nose with a frustrated sound, before he suddenly stills and, to Sherlock's surprise, starts laughing.

“And what is so amusing?” Sherlock grumbles. John shakes his head, tilting it back and taking a deep breath.

“It’s really you,” he chuckles, causing an instantaneous frown on Sherlock's face, but John waves it away. “Yes, yes, I know it’s you I just...” he pauses, his laughter simmering down, though his eyes are still bright. “It’s just hard to simply accept that the man you once lived with is alive after a decade of...nothingness.” At this, John looks saddened, and Sherlock feels the odd impulse to touch the man before him; his knuckles, perhaps, or the curve of a jaw, as if he, too, needed evidence of life, and he flexes his fingers in order to still the impulse. 

“I had to, John. I had no other option. I couldn’t let you...I couldn’t let him win.”

“I know. I’m just...I need time to adjust.” Silence falls briefly between them. “Why don’t you tell me about what you have been up to, then? I bet it’s a great story,” John says, finally really opening up the conversation, and grimaces as he takes a sip of his cooled tea.

“It’s a long story.”

“We have some time. You can give me the Cliff Notes.”

“The what? There weren’t many cliffs involved.”

“A summary with the most salient points,” John says, laughing at Sherlock's confusion, the sound brightening up his expression completely, as if cliffs were something to warrant affection. Sherlock lets it go.

Sherlock shares the beginning of his tale, and finds enjoyment in John’s rapt attention, in his cries of surprise or distress or delight at Sherlock's adventures, as if now a part of him could live them with Sherlock. He tells John of the drug ring in Amsterdam, the car chase in Venezuela, the political agents in Colombia, the police corruption in mainland China, the sex trade in Africa, the trafficking of poisonous fish in Japan. He shares with John the people he had met; the man he had helped briefly in Argentina, who had lost all his family to Moriarty’s men, about the south African boy who had given Sherlock something to eat when he was starving after an explosion had demolished all his equipment. The hour passes quickly, however, and soon John has to leave to pick up Samson, and they agree rapidly to a further meeting. When they part, Sherlock is in high spirits, though he is not blinded enough by it to presume that all is well. There is meaning behind that fact that John does not want to meet at his home, which is why Sherlock hadn’t asked about his son, or his deceased wife. And Sherlock knows that though John is a kind man at heart, he is still angry at Sherlock, made obvious by the fact that he did not touch Sherlock, not even accidentally, or in parting, all evening.

Sherlock is not a patient man by nature, but for the healing of this, he can wait.

 

...**...

 

A fortnight passes in a blink of Sherlock's tired eyes. He can still barely sleep, any slight sound startling him awake. More than once he comes to full consciousness with the gun he keeps under his pillow in his hand, the safety already clicked off. Despite the fact that he asked for a room as far away as possible from the other residents, the walls of the B&B are thin, and he can hear the unremarkable sounds of other lives leaking inside his room. For the first night he tries to entertain himself by deducing who the previous occupiers of his room were, a slight challenge due to the fact that the place was regularly cleaned by the staff, but he manages to find enough clues to tell him it was two men on a romantic retreat, the distance from their home urged on by the fact that one of them had not revealed the affair to his friends and family. The news is oddly unsettling, as if a clue to something bigger, but it must be the remains of the habit of living in a spider web for so long.

That source of entertainment is short-lived, and Sherlock attempts to search for others in the cold cases of the local police department, but they laugh him away, and do not take kindly to him “proving” his detective skills by deducing their affairs, lies, and lifestyles, and he leaves with the threat of being incarcerated if he returns for anything other than to report a crime.

He sees John nine times during the two weeks, all outside his home, without his son, and with conversation that often lapses into tense silences filled with both their true thoughts and feelings, remaining unsaid under the paralytic of fear and pride. Adding insult to injury, Sherlock finds that even though when he is with John their interaction is frequently stilted and strange, when he is not with him he thinks about John a disproportionate amount, trying to figure him out much like an equation with ever changing variables. Every time Sherlock thinks he knows where John stands, the other man says something to throw the theory off, and Sherlock feels he is driving himself mad with dead-ended deductions. However, John slowly opens up about his past. Sherlock observes how John’s face softens as he takes about his son; a bright, introverted boy, apparently, but having developed a quick temper and a weariness of strangers after the death of his mother, which is only natural. Of Mary Morstan, the deceased wife, he has only adulation, a usual stance when speaking of the dead, though that does not stop Sherlock from feeling frustrated when she is talked about. The details of her life, career, likes and dislikes, are brushed away like dust from Sherlock's mind. She is dead, and therefore inconsequential, and, frankly, Sherlock is not interested in her character or values or virtues as a mother and wife. However, though Sherlock finds the topic of conversation irritating, he does not interrupt John as he speaks of her, and can clearly see that she was once a source of great joy for him and, though his emotions are mixed on the matter, he finds some relief in the fact, though he thinks of it no further.

Finally, John ventures to ask him over for dinner at his home, where Samson will be present. Sherlock watches him carefully after the invitation, noting his trepidation. He can’t exactly blame John for wanting to protect his son from him; he isn’t exactly known for his tact with people, especially children. He agrees readily, however, and is relaxed by John’s pleased, slightly relieved expression, even though his anxiousness does not dissipate completely. He searches his friend’s face a moment longer, once again noting the changes from the man in his memories, and the still slightly guarded pose as he sits before him in what is now their usual spot in the cafe, and knows that though once Sherlock could do almost anything without risking John’s friendship, those days are passed, and he risks losing everything he has, as little as that may be, to some, if the meal does not go well. The knowledge of this causes a bezoar of anxiety and anticipation to lodge in his intestine, but, though not even close to an expert on social matters, he is used to playing dangerous games.


	3. Chapter Two

John opens the door with a friendly, if slightly nervous, expression, until it turns to astonishment as he spots the bottle of red wine in Sherlock's hand.

“You’re making red meat,” Sherlock says, as if defending himself for the obviously out-of-character gesture. John smiles.

“Yes. Thanks,” he says, taking the awkwardly thrust forward bottle and stepping aside to let Sherlock in. As he does so, Sherlock spots Samson standing not far behind his father, a suspicious look on this face.

“Hello,” Sherlock greets stiffly, nodding at the boy, who responds in kind. Sherlock removes his gloves and clutches at them for a moment, feeling uncharacteristically unsure. For years, Sherlock had been devoid of doubt; he had goals to meet, and in order to survive he had to follow the plans he laid before him meticulously. Everything was technical, thrilling, exhausting, with no room for hesitation, or thought beyond the multitude of plays in the chess game he had been captured within. And yet here, in this moment, Sherlock feels off balance, as if he is risking more than his life, and the fogged rules, the uncertain possibilities, cause a sort of social awkwardness he’s not sure he’s ever felt before, except maybe when he was a small child and still uncomprehending of the often caustic reactions of adults, or the teasing, weary attitude of his peers.

“You can leave your coat on the hanger,” John suggests, and Sherlock nods, doing so. When he turns back, John has left the wine on the already set table, and is standing behind his son, a hand on his shoulder, enveloping it completely. Sherlock feels an instantaneous divide between him and them, but his expression remains neutral. For a moment, Sherlock once again analyses the face of John’s son; the fair hair, the round face and button nose, the thin lips and blue eyes, all posed in a guarded expression of mistrust.

“Samson, this is Sherlock, an old friend of mine. He used to live with me when I was in London, before I met mum,” John introduces.

“Pleased to meet you,” Samson says, extending his hand in offering, a gesture that seems more due to conditioned learning than any emotive acceptance of Sherlock's presence, but Sherlock approaches and shakes, the boy’s palm rough from games on the playground and beach, and kite flying, if Sherlock is not mistaken. The grip is sturdy, and a ghost of a smile appears on Sherlock's lips before the haunting disappears.

“I hope you’re hungry,” John goes on as the contact breaks. “The food is ready.” Sherlock looks up at John and nods, sitting where he is ordered, and watches the pair bring in steaming food from the kitchen; as Sherlock had guessed, red meat in some kind of dark sauce, as well as sides of potatoes and other baked vegetables. A relatively simple but hardy meal, as would be expected of his John.

As the food is served and they begin to eat, an irrationally awkward silence falls, and Sherlock has to stop himself from spearing his potatoes with a little too much force at the ridiculous frustration he feels. If only everything could be as crystalline as solving puzzles, instead of the tangled mess of social interaction.

“So...what have you been up to today?” John ventures, and Sherlock glances at him, chewing on his food passively. The tastes are far too rich, his palette unaccustomed to anything beyond the simplest meals, but he eats dutifully.

“Went to the police station to see if they had any cold cases I could assist on. They weren’t very receptive,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Ah. I guess Lestrade was a bit of a special case,” John smiles. “Speaking of, have you even gone to see him? Or any of the others, for that matter?” John asks, as if the idea had only just hit him, though Sherlock knows better.

“No.”

“Why? Sherlock! They still think you’ve dead!” John admonishes, a tone Sherlock knows all too well. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Dull,” Sherlock says, but at the stern compression of John lips, goes on. “Don’t worry, my insufferable brother will send a car ‘round in the next few days. I would be infinitely surprised if he did not know of my existence the moment I stepped foot on the oh-so-Great Britain,” he waves off. John opens his mouth to protest, but only a sight comes out.

“Why do people think you’re dead?” Samson pipes up suddenly, and Sherlock looks at the boy, who is mashing his potatoes into the sauce. Sherlock tries not to wrinkle his nose.

“I faked my death to avoid the death of my...of some people. One of which was your father,” Sherlock replies without reserve. Samson stops playing with his food, looking as if he is trying to figured out if he’s being fooled or not. John clears his throat.

“Sherlock was a detective about ten years ago, and I used to help him on some cases. On the last case we did together there was a bad man who wanted to harm us, and Sherlock had to fake his death to get him off our backs,” John explains. Sherlock watches as an unguarded, childish fear takes over the boy’s face.

“Wait...like in the movies? What happened to him? Is he going to hurt you?” he asks quickly, and John shakes his head, smiling.

“No, Samson, Sherlock got rid of him. Right, Sherlock?” John asks with a meaningful look.

“Right.”

Samson frowns down at his plate, no doubt trying to decide if to believe the story or not.

“So you’re like a spy or something? Do you work for the CIA?” Samson asks, and Sherlock almost chokes on his food, looking affronted.

“Certainly not! I’m a consulting detective, and let me assure you that I do _not_ work for the government,” he says, and John chuckles slightly. The boy looks at Sherlock curiously.

“So you solve crimes? Like a superhero?” Sherlock's lips thin, but John interjects before he can say anything.

“Yes. Exactly.” Sherlock looks at him for a long moment and wonders, after everything that has happened, how John can possibly hold on to that sentiment. Superheroes don’t even _solve_ crimes, they merely prevent them. But he says nothing.

“Cool,” Samson says, resuming his mashing, before asking his father, “And you helped him? Like, doing what?”

“Well,” John says, and tells his son about Baskerville, being the most fantastical of their adventures, in his eyes. Samson listens to the tale with increasing astonishment, and shows a childish delight in the existence of glowing rabbits, and phantom dogs, and Sherlock reads much into the fact that John had not shared this part of his life with his son before. Out of grief, partly, perhaps, but mostly, Sherlock thinks, to build himself as another man, one which can live in a quiet town, and have a quiet life. When the story finishes, their meal eaten and the leftovers cooled on the table, Samson sitting in excitable wonder at his new insight into his father and the strange man sharing their food, Sherlock speaks up suddenly.

“Your limp is gone.” John starts slightly, surprised out of his reverie, the aged enjoyment and echoed adrenaline rush, and looks at Sherlock.

“Yeah...well, it came back, not long after you...left. But it disappeared completely after Samson was born.”

“You had a limp?” Samson asks, as Sherlock mutters, “How fortuitous.” John explains his psychosomatic state to Samson, but he glances at Sherlock often in a searching manner, and probably finds too much.

The plates are cleared, John saying nothing of the food left on Sherlock's, and dessert is served, a traditional apple crumble with custard. Samson, now much more alive and engaged than at the start of the night, asks after Sherlock's own adventures during his time defeating the “bad man”.

Apathetically at first, but with building enthusiasm as he sees his audience’s enjoyment, he tells them about the poisonous fish trade in Japan, a story replete with assassination plots, yakuza involvement, gun fights, and a stabbing that had fortunately only been a flesh wound on Sherlock's arm, where the scar is still apparent in a silver line. Samson’s eyes are wide and awed, sitting on his haunches on the chair, body leaning over the table as if proximity could melt him into the events.

“That is _so cool_ ,” he says as Sherlock finishes, and the man smirks, for he chose a story that showed of both his intellectual and fighting capabilities quite well. John, too, though he has heard the story before, is smiling widely, and Sherlock experiences an odd moment of emotion, of connection, as if for the moment he is not alone, and is part of this family, of their cultivated tenderness, and he looks at John, for the first time letting the memory and reality of him melt to form something acceptable and unthreatening, for Sherlock realizes in that moment that he had been worried that this new John would be so different that the old one would be completely lost to Sherlock, and it would turn out that though it was Sherlock who fell from a great height, it was he who would have to grieve for his friend. But, in that instant, with Samson and him looking at Sherlock with almost identical expressions of delight, he feels himself relax slightly, and smiles openly, letting himself enjoy the moment.

The talk of past adventures has neared them to midnight, and John points this out to his son, who groans at the prospect of doing something as boring and common as sleep after hearing tales of such risk and action, but John has grown quite adept at donning a stern look, one Sherlock knows all-too-well,

“I should be going,” Sherlock says, reading the signs, but he feels an odd warmth at Samson’s disappointed expression, a sensation that grows when John says, “Don’t worry, Sherlock will be back soon. Now go wash up.”

“Urgh, _fine,_ ” Samson mutters, but leaves obediently after saying goodbye to Sherlock, who has already wrapped his coat around him, though his gloves remain stuffed in his pocket.

“This was...nice,” Sherlock says, and John, looking surprised, agrees.

“Yes...it really was. You should come back soon, or I’ll never hear the end of it from Samson,” John invites with a smile, and Sherlock nods once. There is an awkward moment in which they simply stand facing each other, immobile, and Sherlock feels a ridiculous want for some kind of contact, to take a step forward and at least feel the sturdiness of John’s shoulder under his hand. Instead, however, he pulls on his gloves sharply, and nods again.

“Well, goodbye,” he says, and John nods also, holding the door open as Sherlock steps out. He is down one step out of three when John calls out Sherlock's name, who turns around to look at the other man’s silhouette.

“I...” There is a pause. “Goodnight,” John says lamely, and Sherlock waits for a moment longer, before saying,

“Goodnight.” Sherlock hears the door close behind him a few seconds later as he walks away, and though he feels a placeless disappointment born only from the last few minutes of the night, underneath and around that he feels warm and content, and is happy to call the meal a success.

 

...**...

 

Sherlock had not been wrong when he had predicted the appearance of his brother. The very next morning, as Sherlock lies on top of his bed like a resting paintbrush in a combination of deep thought and boredom, a knock on the door reveals two men in impeccably dull suits, and a black car waiting in the parking lot, which he gets into without protest, for he sees no point in arguing against the unavoidable.

It is not raining in London, but the city is wet, brown puddles collected on the side of the road, the brick walls of buildings saturated and damp, soaking up the dull light filtered through the thick clouds greying the sky. Sherlock does not feel much of anything as he enters the government building in which his brother awaits, having not felt particularly betrayed by his abuse of Sherlock's childhood knowledge all those years ago, for one cannot truly be let down by somebody one doesn’t really trust in the first place. Sherlock has always known that, for Queen and country, Mycroft would stop just short of selling their mother on the black market. Blood, in this case, is not thicker than patriotism.

The men accompanying Sherlock stop outside a double door, one of them knocking sharply and then motioning for Sherlock to enter. He does so, and the man he finds behind a large, nondescript desk surprises him slightly. Mycroft, though impeccably dressed and groomed, looks much older than he had expected. His hair, Sherlock can tell, is dyed, but the wrinkles on his pumpkin shaped face, and the expanded girth of his middle, cannot be hidden by paint. His eyes are steady and piercing, cataloguing Sherlock in an instant, but he stands unmoving after lifting from his chair.

“Sherlock,” the man says, and there are new creaks in this voice.

“Mycroft,” his brother replies. For a moment they simply stand there, looking at each other, unchallenging, made from the same womb and upbringing, but in that moment separated by a vast and endless sea. Then, to Sherlock's surprise, his brother rounds the table and envelops Sherlock in a hug, his wide arms capturing Sherlock's slim frame completely. Sherlock stands stiff and unyielding for a moment, before letting himself relax, pressing his forehead against a shoulder and breathing the familiar and unchanged scent of Mycroft’s characteristic soap and cologne. It has been a very long time since Sherlock has been touched by anybody, and though this has never bothered him before, the solitude of the past decade has made the absence stark and obvious and troubling. Despite his mistrusting and competitive relationship with his brother, Mycroft has been a constant in his life, and though meddling and infuriating, Sherlock knows that his brother, for whatever reason, has often had his best interest in mind, even though his methods are more often than not intrusive and dogmatic.  

“I’m glad to see you alive and well, Sherlock,” Mycroft says as they part, and Sherlock nods. Mycroft pours them two cups of tea in china cups as they sit down on opposite sides of the desk, and there is a pause as Sherlock leaves his untouched, whilst Mycroft sips from his own.

“I have to confess that what happened with Mr. Moriarty...I miscalculated. An apology is long overdue.” A pause. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft says, his voice softened by age and old grief. Sherlock tips his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“Well, don’t try to take all the credit, Mycroft. And I can’t say I’m displeased that I thwarted a man that outdid you,” Sherlock smirks slightly. “I hope you keep that in mind the next time you think yourself more intelligent than I.” Mycroft tries to look exasperated but smiles instead.

“I hope that I am correct in assuming that the little problem has been dealt with completely?” Mycroft asks. Sherlock succeeds in not rolling his eyes at the use of the phrase, “little problem”.

“Quite,” he responds, finally taking a drink from his cup, and Mycroft sits back, looking satisfied, but not taking his eyes off his brother.

“You have gone to see Mummy?” Mycroft asks after a pause.

“Yes.”

“I expect she did not take too kindly to your little stunt.”

“She set the dogs on me,” Sherlock replies a little sullenly, and has the sudden urge to stick his tongue out at the amusement in Mycroft’s eyes. Some habits never die.

There is a sudden knock on the door, and Mycroft sits up.

“Come in,” he calls. “I’m sure you won’t mind, but I’ve invited some old friends of yours to join us.”

“I expected no less from your meddling ways,” Sherlock sighs, standing up just as Greg Lestrade steps inside the room. Sherlock looks at the old Inspector, who has also aged greatly, his hair now more salt than pepper, and the lines of a stressful life etched deeply on his face. For a moment there is complete silence and stillness, before Lestrade strides forward in a burst of action.

“I should have known! I _should have known!_ ” The man growls, stopping inches from Sherlock, and though his movement are angry, there is a different, more relieved expression on his face.

“And yet you didn’t. Another point lost for the London police force,” Sherlock says, and Lestrade lets out a burst of air.

“I should punch you.”

“Now, now,” Mycroft says from behind his desk, “no need for that sort of violence here.” Lestrade stands still for a moment before pulling Sherlock suddenly into a rough hug, which ends just as abruptly.

“I’m glad you’re alive, you tosser. What on earth have you been up to all this time?” He says, but is interrupted by another knock and the door being once again flung open.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade steps aside to look at Molly, who the years have been kind to. Her hair is cut short, the ends skimming her jaw line, and has filled out slightly, acquiring the curves gifted by a good life and childbearing. Her face has matured out of her previously slightly childish features, and Sherlock grunts as she flings herself at him in a tight hug.

“Hello, Molly.”

“I can’t believe you’re back! I...I wondered if...you were gone for so long...”

“You _knew?_ ” Lestrade asks incredulously, and Molly pulls back, shrugging apologetically as she sniffles slightly, her eyes bright with tears.

“I promised not to tell,” she says simply.

“Married life suits you, you’ve put on half a stone,” Sherlock says, and Molly laughs wetly, hitting Sherlock on the arm.

“I would say you haven’t changed at all but...” she rests the palm of her hand lightly on Sherlock's cheek, “I can see that isn’t true,” she says softly, to which Sherlock has no reply.

“Well, sit down. Michael, bring in some more tea and some scones for our guests, and make sure we aren’t disturbed,” Mycroft orders.

“Yes, sir,” the man in the suit says, closing the door as he exits.

Sherlock is once again enticed into sharing the story of his ten years abroad, though the fact doesn’t displease him, and he gives them a slightly abbreviated version. Mycroft looks as if he is not surprised by anything his brother says, Lestrade looks mostly incredulous, and Molly is in turns aghast and delighted. The afternoon passes quickly, and Sherlock is told, though he has already deduced, that Lestrade remarried, and re-divorced, and that even at his age he is still on the force. Molly is happily married, with two children of her own, and still works in St. Bart’s, doing what she has always done, though she is now head of her department.

It is almost tea time when Sherlock leaves, though he is driven to 221 Baker Street, where he is met by Mrs. Hudson, who slaps him on the arm before hugging him. She looks as if time has shrunk her slightly, but as healthy and active as she did ten years ago, despite the claim of almost having a heart attack when she heard the news of Sherlock's resurrection. They sit in her living room and drink tea, Mrs. Hudson sharing tale of events Sherlock is mostly uninterested in, but that are listened to dutifully, only captured once the topic turns to John.

“He was quite distraught, the poor boy. The things you get up to Sherlock, couldn’t you have told him? It was very hard on him you know,” she admonishes.

“I know,” Sherlock says passively.

“It was very good for him when he met that girl, Mary. She was a good sort, managed to get John out of his shell...such a shame that she had to die. Cancer, you know. Everybody is getting it these days. Mrs. Turner had it, though she had an operation and was as right as rain afterwards. Funny how us old crows survive whilst you youngsters...well. No use dwelling on that. It‘ll be good for him that you’re back,” she says, patting Sherlock’s hand.

“Will it?” Sherlock frowns, though there is no inflection in his voice.

“Yes, Sherlock. He’s missed you terribly, even after he married. We visit, well, visi _ted_ , your grave together every year, and he always looked so terribly...alone.” She drifts off slightly, as if remembering exactly the expression on John’s face that had caused such a conclusion.

“He wasn’t alone, though,” Sherlock says, and Mrs. Hudson looks at him with a knowing look.

“There are many types of loneliness, dear. You know that.” Sherlock says nothing, but when he leaves with a kiss on his cheek she looks at him meaningfully and says, “Say hello to John for me, won’t you?”

The drive back to the seaside is long, and as darkness falls Sherlock submerges himself in deep though, watching the lights and shadows flitter past as the moon follows the car. He feels exhausted, but a sense of determination grows inside him, nourished by the acceptance from the other people he had left behind.

There, he finds hope.

 

...**...

 

Weeks pass Sherlock by, the hours a never ending tide. The time he doesn’t spend with John and Samson is occupied with long walks around the town as Sherlock memorizes every street and crossroad, which he sketches out on long, thin rolls of paper from the only supply store he finds. He starts investigating a series of robberies in one of the neighbourhoods, but the attempt is lacklustre, oftentimes failing to fully capture his distracted mind, perhaps because the mystery lacks the excitement of Moriarty’s chase, or because the once natural progress of working alone leaves him now wanting. Whatever the case, the effect is of frustration and restlessness, leaving Sherlock out of sorts and aching for something not even he knows the source of.

It’s an unusually sunny Saturday in early March, and Sherlock finds himself on the beach with John and Samson, who seem used to this routine. Sherlock has not spent a simple day by the seaside since he was a child, and feels like an awkward addition to the playful family of two, standing stiffly with the sun in his hair, watching the two pick seashells and run around with abandon in the sand. Sherlock distracts himself by walking closer to the dunes that stretch farther away from the sea, inspecting the feathers that lay on the ground, trembling in the soft wind.

“What are you doing?” Asks a voice behind Sherlock's crouched form, and he turns around to see Samson looking at him curiously.

“Gathering data on local bird species,” Sherlock replies.

“You like birds, then?” Samson asks, walking closer.

“Not particularly.” Samson watches Sherlock for a moment, before laughing slightly, but he doesn’t ask why Sherlock would be gathering data on birds if he didn’t like them, which Sherlock appreciates, far too used to stupid questions. Samson squats beside Sherlock, his coat puffing around him, to look at the feather being twirled by Sherlock's fingers.

“Is that a seagull feather?” The boy asks. Sherlock looks at him contemplatively for a moment before holding the object of interest up.

“Yes. A flight feather, to be precise.”

“Flight feather? How do you know?” Samson says, looking up at Sherlock, who even crouching is taller than the boy.

“Well...” Sherlock begins, before standing up and looking around for a comparison. They walk around slowly for a while, Sherlock inspecting the ground carefully, ignoring John as he walks up to join them.

“Ah, here,” Sherlock says, bending down. “This is a tail feather. Can you see the difference?” He hands the two dirty-white feathers to Samson, who holds them up in parallel, frowning at them in concentration.

“This is the flight feather, right?” Samson asks, holding one up. Sherlock nods. “This one has more feather stuff on one side of the bone thing, and the other- the tail feather- has the same amount on both sides,” he says, looking inquisitively at Sherlock, who smiles slightly.

“Well done. Both tail and flight feathers are compact and have long vanes, which is the length of feather, but tail feathers have the rachis, the boned middle, at equidistance from the edge of the feather, whilst the flight feather does not,” Sherlock clarifies. Samson looks at the feathers, inspecting the calcium spine.

“Rachis,” he repeats under his breath. “Why are they different?” Samson asks, still peering at the feathers.

“The asymmetrical shape of the flight feather is better for cutting through air, causing less drag, whilst the symmetrical form of the tail feather is good for balance,” Sherlock explains, finding that he is enjoying himself.

“Cool,” Samson says. “I like birds, though seagulls can be really mean. One stole a sandwich once, right out of my hands!”

“They have adapted well to life in urbanized areas, yes.”

“What other types of feathers are there?”

“The rest, at least on seagulls, are mainly body feathers. They tend to be smaller and lighter, so we can probably find them in the shrubbery,” Sherlock says. As they set off in search of them, Sherlock glances at John, catching the bright smile on his face, and can’t help but return the expression. When they had worked together in London, there was less teaching and more showing off on Sherlock's part, but the role of educator is not as taxing as Sherlock would have thought. On the contrary, Sherlock feels warmed by the engaged, interested expression of the other two. It is not long before John finds some downy feathers caught on an Acacia Baileyana, and then a semiplume fluttering at the base of an Artemesia Powis shrub, and Sherlock entertains by explaining their insulator and water resistant uses, and points out that Samson’s jacket is most likely stuffed with the downy feathers of geese. John wrinkles his nose a little when Samson asks if he can take the feathers home, but acquiesces. When Samson and John go back to the shoreline to continue picking up smoothed glass and seashells, Sherlock joins them, and walks, shoulder to shoulder, with John, as Samson runs around them, flittering back every now and again to show them a particularly pretty find. The sea air has never seemed so clean and fresh to Sherlock, and as it fills his lungs it has an almost healing effect, soothing edges that have long been raw and ragged, and finds there is a content expression on his face that he can’t shake off. John too, he notes, is more relaxed than Sherlock has seen him since he returned, and the sound of his laughter makes smiling easy and natural for Sherlock. It is an easy comradeship which Sherlock finds he has missed dearly, and as he looks at John he feels something he can’t quite name. A warmth at the base of his lungs and tips of his fingers, and it feels as if he is cultivating something delicate and beautiful, the petals of which bloom deep in his chest. As sunset falls, a dusty colouring of pink and orange fading across the horizon, Sherlock agrees to dinner with an unhesitant heart, and even helps in the cooking process, much to Samson’s delight, which has taken a quick and sudden liking to the knowledgeable Sherlock, who so obviously makes his father happy. During the meal they talk much about nothing, though Samson manages to convince Sherlock to share another one of his stories as they eat dessert, and Sherlock feels calm and content, the soft feeling inside him growing in the nourishment of John’s home. Even if Sherlock wanted to try, he would not be capable of explaining the feeling of sitting down without having to check his position against windows and doors, straining his ears to make sure he doesn’t miss the sound of his booby traps going off, without having to feel persecuted, or carefully analyzing the words of his companions lest they be one of Moriarty’s, or rather, Moran’s, men, the latter of which has taken over much of Jim’s “enterprises” once he was dead, which had forced Sherlock to be exceedingly careful in how he infiltrated Moriarty’s crime syndicate, lest he be found out and his friends killed. Now, he can just talk, and watch John, learning his new ways, and being comforted by his old ones, and he realizes that the warmth inside him goes beyond a physical feeling, into the deeper and more dangerous waters of emotions.

It is once again late when they finish the sweetest part of their meal, but when Samson is carted off to bed, Sherlock stays a while longer, indulging in his desire to let the evening with John last a while longer. He leans against a kitchen counter as John washes dishes in the sink, talking quietly, observing the movements of his elbows and back, the only sound their hushes voices, the clinking of plates and glasses and sloshing water, and the sea washing sand in and out in the distance. The moment seems to bubble around them, a bell jar containing just the two men, encapsulated against the wind and cold of the outside world, against passing time, even, and as a lull in conversation falls, Sherlock cannot resist the temptation of being closer to John. He walks slowly, with measured but mindless steps, towards the sink, until his chest is close to John’s back, and lets his hands rest on John’s shoulders, feeling the suddenly tense line of their muscles and bones. John’s hands stop the cyclical movement of plate washing. Sherlock takes a step closer, until John’s heat is his, a ghostly presence that has the most proficient of haunting abilities. He closes his eyes, unable to comprehend the feeling the mere stance causes in him. He is made for thought, logic; not for emotions. Not for this. As if no longer in control of his body, he feels his head tip slightly forwards until his nose is barely brushing John’s hair. He exhales. John trembles beneath his hands.

“Sherlock.” The voice is as soft and transparent as the heat between them. “I....Stop. It’s. It’s too much after too little.” Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. John is so incomprehensible at times. He steps away, and the loss is instantaneous.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock is never one to leave curiosity neglected. There is a pause, and John doesn’t move from his statuesque stance.

“I...when a person has been starved, malnourished, for a very long time, and then suddenly faced with a banquet, their first instinct is to eat, to devour. But after the first few bites their body, used to so little, rejects anything further. The stomach closes up. The food is rejected. They...they want. But they can’t have it. It’s...physiology. Biology. An uncontrollable truth.” A long silence follows. Neither of them move.

“So...you want. But you can’t,” Sherlock asks. Only then does John turn to look at him, and the sadness there could fill the deepest of oceans.

“Yes, Sherlock. Something like that.” John returns to washing, and the moment passes. The bell jar breaks.

When Sherlock leaves not long after, John’s words tread footmarks across his mind, trying to comprehend the feeling of too much after too little.

 

...**...

 

 

“So is there _murder_ involved?” Samson asks, trotting besides Sherlock's long strides, who unthinkingly slows down to let the kid catch up.

“Probably. We’ll know more when we interview the widow,” Sherlock replies, and smiles slightly as Samson reacts with an enthusiastic “cool”. He hasn’t exactly asked John permission to take his child to a crime scene, but in theory the investigation revolves around a robbery, with no body or blood to traumatise the boy, so Sherlock doesn’t know what John could possibly have against the little excursion. Sherlock has been left in charge of Samson due to the fact that he is off school because of a local holiday that, unfortunately, John cannot take advantage of, and the babysitter had fallen through because of a sudden-onset bout of flu. John hadn’t been exactly enthused with the idea of Sherlock minding the kid when he had offered, by after having his ear chewed off by Samson, had agreed, albeit reluctantly. Sherlock could see that it was partly because of Samson’s enthusiasm, but also because Sherlock seemed to be actually _trying_ , a rare thing for him to do in social situations. What had begun as a calm day inside John’s house has ended up in a trip to the house of a woman whose husband was recently deceased in a hit and run, followed by a robbery at their home in which only a few, extremely valuable, first-edition books had been stolen, leaving everything else untouched.

The woman who opens the door looks tired and sallow, the bags under her eyes, the uncoordinated clothing, the unwashed hair and chipped nails all telling Sherlock about her grief over her recent loss.

“Yes?” She sighs in greeting, an arm wrapped around her middle in a protective fashion. Sherlock fakes gentleness.

“I’m here to speak to you about the robberies,” Sherlock explains. “Don’t mind him,” he adds as the widow glances at Samson, who stays still and silent after a subdued “hello”.

“I already talked to the police about that,” she says, still blocking the entryway.

“I’m a consultant with them, I’m here to help,” Sherlock says, holding back his impatience.

“Look,” she begins, shaking her head, “I don’t really want to go over it again. I talked to the police, they should have my statement. Just look at that, ok? Have a good-”

“I think your husband’s death wasn’t an accident,” Sherlock interrupts, and the woman freezes, true attention focusing her eyes.

“What?” She whispers weakly.

“I’ll explain everything,” Sherlock assures, glancing meaningfully behind her and into the house. There is a long pause in which she just stares at Sherlock, before wordlessly stepping back in a clear invitation to come in, which Sherlock immediately accepts, Samson following behind. Sherlock takes stock of the layout of the house in one quick look, finding a nondescript, lived-in place, with perhaps more books stacked in bookcases and shelves than is the norm.

“Where was the safe the books were kept in?” Sherlock asks.

“Wait, about my husband-”

“The safe first,” Sherlock interrupts. “Please,” he adds as an afterthought. The woman stands still for a second before leading him to a hidden window in one of the bookcases, behind which is the safe. Sherlock inspects the model for an instant, Samson peering curiously into the now empty space.

“What is the boy doing here?” The woman asks suddenly. Sherlock doesn’t turn to look at her, running a gloved finger on the side of the secret door.

“I’m babysitting,” he says offhandedly, to which the woman bristles.

“Babysitting? Is this a joke? I swear to God-”

“I’m sorry,” Samson apologises quickly, standing straight, and Sherlock turns to look at him. “I can wait outside. Sherlock was nice enough to look after me ‘cause it’s a holiday at school but my dad’s a doctor and Cynthia, my babysitter, she’s got the flu you see, but Sherlock came here anyways so that the case could be solved as quickly as possible, for your sake. To have some closure. I...I know what it’s like to lose someone. My mum...she had cancer,” the boy says, his voice faltering at the end, head tilting down to avoid the stares that are now focused on him. The woman presses her fingers lightly on her lips.

“I’m so sorry,” she says wetly. “Here, let’s sit down. I’ll tell you all I can.” Samson follows her to a used but presentable couch, turning down the tea the woman offers. Sherlock follows a moment later, staring at Samson intently. He is, Sherlock thinks, remarkably like his father.

True to her word, the woman answers all of Sherlock questions, growing more and more upset but managing to control herself enough to last the interview. Samson watches carefully, and Sherlock can see John there, there, in the interest and focus of his eyes, and nostalgia blooms for a second before being pushed away.  When Sherlock is done, he sits pensively in silence for a few moments, before nodding and standing up.

“Thank you. The police will contact you shortly, I believe,” he says, pulling his gloves on.

“Wait! You said, my husband, you said it wasn’t an accident?” The widow says, also standing up.

“Yes, I believe he was murdered. As I said, the police will contact you shortly, I wouldn’t worry much about the matter until all the facts can be verified.”

“Not _worry_? You want me not to worry that my husband was murdered?” The woman asks, agitated.

“You are not in any danger-”

“That’s not what I’m worried about! Who did it? Why? For the books? For God’s sake say something!” She shouts, and Samson shrinks away slightly, nevertheless looking at Sherlock steadfastly.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot do so before the police talk to the suspect. Understand that though I comprehend your need for answers, in the unlikely case that I am mistaken, more harm than good will come of it. Now, you have given me all the information I need. All to be done is to question the suspect and if the books are in his possession then all will be resolved. It will be done quickly, but for your sake as well as mine, it is better for you to be kept in the dark of what right now are theories, instead of facts. Justice will be done. You needn’t worry about that. Sit tight. You will have your answers, I assure you,” Sherlock says without much emotion, though with understanding. The widow stands there, a hand clutched on the cloth over her heart. Samson moves to stand beside Sherlock, and looks up at the woman.

“He’s a good detective, Missus. He’ll make sure everything is done right. You can trust him.” Samson says softly. The widow looks at him for a moment, before her shoulders slump, defeated, and she nods.

“Ok. I...understand. Thank you,” she replies without force, and leads them to the door, shutting it quietly behind them.

“Couldn’t you have been a bit nicer?” Samson asks as they begin walking, zipping up his coat. Sherlock glances at him, but says nothing. “So? How did it go?”

“You did well. Just like your father,” Sherlock says. Samson smiles.

“Thanks. But I meant, what did you find out? Why’d you think the husband was murdered?” He asks.

“Ah. Well, it’s obvious, really,” Sherlock says, and explains to him about the true value of those rare books, about how the perpetrator must have known exactly where to look, as nothing else had been searched, and therefore must have been someone known, but closer to the wife, close enough to spare her life, close enough to have motive to remove the husband from the picture besides opening a window in which the house would be inhabited and insure that he did not take the books to the safe at his work, as he often did, for he was a book store owner and often had opportunity to showcase them. Coupled with the fact that the husband was pedantically careful enough for it not to be feasible that he would jaywalk with a car approaching at a speed sufficient for death, and that the robbery had happened but a day later, it all pointed to murder. As to whom the suspect was, well, the obvious choice was James Saunter, a friend  of the widow’s in her book club, who had been to the house, been shown the books, and knew enough about the topic to know their value without being told. In short, Sherlock was amazed the police hadn’t figured it out, simply because the widow would never think of James as capable of such a thing. And, alas, there lies the defect in sentiment.

“Wow,” Samson says after a moment of silence in the aftermath of Sherlock effusive explanation. “That was amazing. I was wondering why you asked about her book club.” Sherlock looks at Samson, who is walking happily beside him, and smiles.

“Yes, well, to find the answer you must ask the right question,” Sherlock says, and Samson nods in agreement. There is a long period of silence as they continue towards the Watson household, until Samson asks suddenly,

“Sherlock...do you believe in heaven?” Sherlock is startled out of the text conversation with the police chief, who seems unnecessarily confused as to how Sherlock obtained his number, and why he knows so much about the case. 

“Of course not,” he scoffs, tucking the phone away as it rings silently. He has no energy to receive a talking to now.

“What do you think happens after death, then?” Samson goes on. Sherlock sighs.

“Decomposition,” he answers. Samson looks up at him.

“That’s it? What about the soul?”

“What about it? The soul is an imagined construct made by the feeble minded in order to explain the complex work of neurons and to elevate humans above the status of animal. We are arrogant creatures, and people cannot seem to fathom the idea that we are simply organic matter, like anything else in this world, and that the voice inside one’s head, the array of emotions and concept of time and memories, can all be eliminated by blows to the head, believing that we are made in the ‘image of God’; how ridiculous! Heaven is an idea born of fear. When one dies, that is exactly what happens. You die. Your body decays, and your personality disappears,” Sherlock rants carelessly. Samson tucks his hands inside his jacket pockets, puffed around his small frame.

“Right,” he says slowly, looking down. Sherlock glances at him.

“Have I upset you?” He asks. Samson shakes his head slowly.

“Not really.”

“Are you thinking of your mother?” Sherlock hedges. Samson looks up at him again.

“Yeah.” There is a moment of silence.

“There is nothing wrong with decomposition, Samson. It is not worse than eternity. And it is a very interesting process. I can teach you about it, if you like,” Sherlock says. Samson smiles slightly.

“Ok,” he says quietly.

They do not speak for the rest of the walk, but though the wind pulls and whistles around them, the silence between them is calm.

 

...**...

 

“A _crime scene_!?” John shouts. His face is an odd combination of pallor and red splotches which, in Sherlock's experience, means he is quite upset.

“Not the scene of the murder, John. Give me some credit,” Sherlock mumbles, turning his untouched tea mug on the kitchen counter it rests on, a long, pale finger pushing despondently at the handle.

“Sherlock, I trusted you with my _son_ and you take him to a _crime scene_?”

“It was a house.”

“A stranger’s house!”

“She wasn’t the criminal, John.”

“It’s still exposing him to-”

“Dad! Give it a rest, we just talked to a woman, she was nice,” Samson interrupts, jumping up on the stool besides Sherlock and leaning over the kitchen counter towards where his dad stands in the kitchen. “And. It. Was. Awesome!” He enthuses. “You should have seen him! He inspected the safe all detective like, and then asked a bunch of questions the police hadn’t even thought of and solved it in like five minutes, dad! He was like _bam!_ It’s the book club creep!” He grins at Sherlock, who straightens up, a smile at the edge of his lips.

“Oh, stop looking so smug. He’ll be asking to go to all the crime scenes now,” John mutters grumpily, though he is obviously appeased in the face of his son’s unharmed enthusiasm.

“Can I!?”

“No!”

“Aw, man, you’re such a drag,” Samson complains. “Well, I’m gonna be a detective when I’m older. Do you think you could show me how to do it, Sherlock?” Samson asks, all earnest eyes. Sherlock glances at John in amusement for a second.

“Well, the science of deduction is a delicate but demanding field, but you seem bright enough, as Watson’s go,” he teases. John huffs, and Samson beams.

“And I can ask uncle Lestrade to teach me as well!” he says, practically crawling onto the counter in his excitement.

“Samson, get off that,” John says.

“As useless policemen go, Lestrade is one of the better ones. Just make sure not to talk to Anderson,” Sherlock instructs.

“Anderson? Who is that? Why?”

“One of the monkeys the police deem good enough to employ. He’s got such a severe case of stupidity that I fear it may be contagious. I don’t want you exposed to that if I am to teach you,” Sherlock says. John sighs. Samson laughs in delight at hearing an adult insult another.

“What kind of monkey?” Samson asks.

“The lobotomized kind,” Sherlock replies.

“I’ve got two children, now,” John mumbles in resignation, but he is smiling, one Sherlock cannot help but return.

Sherlock stays for dinner, dessert, and then is somehow convinced to sit through a movie which’s plot is so transparent Sherlock cannot understand the point of seeing more than the first ten minutes, but he stays silent until the credits roll. Exhausted by the day’s excitement, Samson falls asleep against Sherlock, and when the movie ends and John spots Sherlock slumped on the sofa, Samson curled and pressed beside him, he pauses and stares at the picture they make. Somewhere in his expression, Sherlock can tell, is happiness. They talk quietly well into the night, about cases and experiments and memories and nothing-at-alls, until Samson stirs and is taken off to bed. John offers Sherlock a night on the couch, but he turns it down. He fears that if he stays there much longer, in that warmth and quiet, he will lose sight of what reality is actually like.

When Sherlock leaves, John takes hold of his wrist, just for a moment, and Sherlock can feel John’s fingers over his pulse, the strength and warmth of them, before the contact breaks, and he is lost to the cold of the witching hours. 


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. I know to some of you it may seem the story is too short, but I really wanted to explore one aspect of John and Sherlock's relationship; the return, magnified by the long absence and all that entails. I like stopping when I feel I’ve said all that’s really needed to be said, and I hope most of you have enjoyed the story. Thank you so much for reading and to all of you who have left comments, you don’t know how much I appreciate it. Hope you enjoy the last segment!

Of course Sherlock is aware, because he knows himself and his own nature, that the peace between John and him cannot last forever.

Both Samson and John, after a fitful night of sleep thanks to a newly acquired puppy barking next door, are both tired and grumpy, but Samson, whose childish constitution is not yet trained to withstand a hard day after lack of rest, is in a state of surly moodiness which currently manifests itself in the hunched-up position of his back as he sits on one of the couches, bent over some kind of gaming device which he clicks at in his hands. Sherlock has been but an observer in John’s wearing patience as he tries to get his son to release “the DS”, as the apparatus is apparently called, and clean his room before dinner, to which Samson constantly replies with the rather cryptic, “I can’t dad, I’m in a dungeon”, or “I have to beat the boss”. Finally, John resorts to calmly pulling the thing from his son’s hands and shutting the screen, which causes a cry of protest from the boy with a grief that Sherlock finds bemusing, having never experienced the addictive and hardworking process of killing a virtual monster.

“Samson, enough. I get that you’re tired but you know the rules; clean your room, eat, and then you can play. You know how mum hated you being stuck to a screen all day,” John says in that deadly calm voice which signals outmost seriousness, but Samson, two blotches of red rising to his cheeks, seems to either not pick up or not care about the stony quality of his father’s voice.

“What does it matter what mum hated! She’s not here! She’s not anywhere! She’s dead!” The boy shouts, jumping up from the couch. A corrosive silence falls within the house, and it seems to sting at Sherlock's skin, for he knows exactly what’s about to happen.

“Samson...” John says, more softly now, taken aback by his son’s sudden outburst, “Just because mum is dead doesn’t mean she isn’t with us. She-” but Samson is not receptive to hearing platitudes.

“You’re lying! You don’t believe it, you know she’s gone, she’s nothing! She’s just, just, decomposing!” The boy says, his eyes bright now, the breath in his throat hitching, before he stumbles off to his room as one flees the scene of a crime. John does not move to stop him, seeming too shocked to do anything but watch his son leave. He stands there, stone still, before turning to Sherlock slowly, who is sitting stiffly on one of the kitchen stools, having been invited for dinner the previous day.

“Decomposing? Sherlock, did you...?” John asks quietly, and Sherlock knows there is no point in lying.

“Yes.” John runs a hand through his hair, staring at Sherlock.

“What did you say to him?” He asks in a deadly voice Sherlock knows from the past.

“He asked me if I believed in heaven, and I told him the truth,” Sherlock replies monotonously. He feels numb, but no need to form a defence. He has never really regretted speaking the truth.

“The truth? The truth,” John laughs hollowly. “He asked you if you believed in heaven, and your answer was that his mother is rotting in the ground?”

“Well, it _is_ the truth, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock,” John says quietly, dangerously, “He’s just a child!”

“A child!” Sherlock repeats, beginning to get angry himself, “And when is someone old enough not to be lied to?” John stares at him incredulously.

“Sherlock, you know nothing about the truth in these matters.  Let me tell you what happens when someone you love dies. You don’t have to believe in heaven or God to known that they stay with us when they die. When people die, they don’t die alone. Yes, the process of facing death is a solitary one, but when they actually die, they take pieces of those they loved with them, because there is an unavoidable loss, and emptiness, that is created, of love and _feeling_ that goes with them. And similarly, when someone dies, they leave, they leave pieces behind in the ones they love because we remember them, and we still love them, and all the things that person has taught us, all our memories of them, they don’t just die, they don’t just _disappear_. I still feel loved by her, and Samson should too, because that love still exists inside us. So you telling my son that all Mary is now is a corpse is not the _truth_. It’s how _you_ want to see the world. But people don’t just die, Sherlock, not until the last fragment, memory, feeling for them, of them, is gone. But how would you know? You’re the one that left, right? You didn’t have to mourn the death of someone you loved! Who are you to speak of the truth!” John says, his voice rising to a shout. Sherlock clenches his teeth.

“Here we go, then, what you’ve really been thinking all along, what you’ve just been waiting to say. Well go on. Accuse me, really accuse me for leaving, because you still don’t even understand! I had no choice! I did what I _had_ to do!” Sherlock grits out, getting to his feet in his agitation, but John won’t back down.

“You could have contacted me, just once, just to let me _know_!”

“Oh, is that what I should have done? Really? Put you and your precious wife and son in danger just to appease you? Really, you wanted me to risk their lives just so you would know? Risk Lestrade’s, and Mrs. Hudson’s, and yours?” Sherlock asks harshly. “And you speak about loss and about death but you weren’t the one who was alone all this time! You married! You have a son, and friends, and a new life! You moved on! It was I, John, _I_ who was alone all these years, not you! So don’t you tell me about grief and about loss as if I don’t understand what that’s like! You want to blame me? Fine! But don’t talk as if I don’t know the truth,” Sherlock hisses, stepping closer to John and looking down at him mercilessly. There is a moment of cemented silence, of sinking solitude and stillness, before John’s shoulders slump, and his fighting, soldier’s stance is defeated.

“You’re right,” he says quietly, and Sherlock lets out the breath he had been holding, taking a step back, John’s presence acidic. “I know, I _know_ you’re right but...logic and emotion, they...You can reign your emotions in, you let logic rule you, but it isn’t like that for the rest of us. Logically, I know you’re right but...Sherlock, I mourned you. I felt so...I just. I know you’re right, but I don’t _feel_ it. I just...I can’t seem to...it just hurt too much,” John says softly. Sherlock clenches his hands. There is nothing he can do to defeat emotions, no argument he can construct, no persuasive debate. So why even try? He unclenches his hands.

“That must be tedious,” Sherlock says, an olive branch.

“What, having emotion rule instead of logic?” John asks. Sherlock nods. “Yes. It can be. But it can also be wonderful.” They stare at each other for a long while.

“Let me talk to Samson,” Sherlock says, and John’s expression clenches slightly, but Sherlock will not lose this battle. He has too big a bet on this family. “Please. John, I...understand. I do.” There is a pleading look in Sherlock's eyes, and John finally nods slowly.

“Sherlock, I can’t give you another chance with my son. You-”

“I understand, John. I understand.” And he does.

Sherlock finds the door to Samson’s room cracked open, and knocks twice sharply before stepping inside. The boy is sitting forlornly on the bed, his hands between his knees, looking upset and withdrawn. Sherlock walks in slowly, sitting on the desk chair.

“You heard the conversation, I presume?” Sherlock asks quietly. Samson nods. “There is merit to what your father says, Samson. I...I don’t believe in heaven but...I do understand John’s point of view.” Sherlock sighs, looking at the slim boy, who has tears collecting on his eyelashes. “If your father were to die, Samson, I would be very upset. And I know that I would lose a part of myself if he did, a part that I only really discovered when he came into my life. I once believed I didn’t have a heart but...well, he proved me quite mistaken.” Samson looks up at Sherlock, and seems to see more than Sherlock ever intended showing. He nods slowly, and Sherlock returns the gesture

“You can do what you like, of course, but I suggest you apologise to your father,” Sherlock says, sanding up. Hesitantly, he places a hand on Samson’s shoulder, and squeezes once, before leaving the room. John straightens up from his seat on one of the kitchen stools as Sherlock steps into the living room area.

“Well?” He asks, but Sherlock shrugs, having no real idea what kind of impact the short talk had on Samson. John opens his mouth anxiously, but closes it again as Samson appears behind Sherlock, looking much like a dog with its talk between his its legs. Sherlock moves to the side, and Samson avoids looking at either of them.

“I’m sorry, dad,” he says quietly. John smiles.

“It’s ok. Come here,” John says, opening his arms, and Samson is young enough to crawl between them and let himself be consoled by his father. Sherlock looks away from the sight, and heads towards the door.

“Don’t go,” Samson says as Sherlock unhooks his coat from the hat stand. Sherlock tries to smile briefly.

“I’m afraid I’ve grown quite exhausted. We can reschedule,” he says. He cannot stand the thought of being there much longer, being near John, looking at him, after all that has been said, after emotions have come so strongly to play, muddying the waters of logic, twisting everything inside him into something painful and foreign. Has he been broken by the decade of solitude, he wonders, that logic seems to be failing him in the face of more uncertain things, of the presence of his old friend? He is too tired, now, too worn, fading at the edges, dissipating. 

“Let’s go to the beach on Friday, then. The forecast says it’ll be sunny,” John suggests. Sherlock nods, and flees, wondering when, exactly, the will to fight had abandoned him.

 

...**...

 

Friday falls two days later, and the air between John and Sherlock is tense once again, the latter of the two wondering if this is how it will be from now on; a constant push and pull until something breaks. Simply put, Sherlock is tired, tired of the chase, tired of fighting and of feeling and of being alone. Oftentimes, when he was younger, he wished for the option of disconnecting his brain, if only to sleep, but now he wishes to quiet other parts of himself, that seem to run with the rush of blood and the beat of his heart, a sort of yearning that stretches over his skin, making his fingertips itch against the absence of _something_ , a feeling which is magnified only by John’s presence.

Despite this, the lunch they share with Samson by the waterfront is amicable and calm. Both the child and Sherlock complain about the peas on their plates, to which John responds with amused exasperation. When John asks Sherlock about what he was been up to, Sherlock tells him of the little altercation with the police after the maid at the B&B had found the hands he has coerced out of Molly on his last visit to London, which he kept in the mini fridge he had installed.

“Dead people’s hands?” Samson asks with morbid fascination.

“Yes, see, you understand; _dead_ people’s hands, it’s not like they were being used,” Sherlock replies grumpily, not at all happy at the confiscation of his severed limbs.

“Yeah, they should have known better,” John says sarcastically, smiling, and Sherlock rolls his eyes with a similar lack of animosity.

Samson talks about school, and the teacher who apparently fancies John, and sings some song about K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Sherlock frowns, biting his tongue, and says nothing, but the thought of it makes the pit of his stomach feel unduly heavy, and he wonders about the quality of the food they have consumed.

On the beach, Sherlock stands slightly apart from the other two, staring at the swarming ocean, which seems to him infinitely empty and endless. John plays with his son on the sand, unrolling the long cord of a kite, as Sherlock thinks of the conversation they had at John’s house. As he looks at the father and son, he can almost feel the presence of Mary between them, in their movements and their talk, in John’s pose, relaxed from his old soldier stance, in his open smile directed at his son, the deep familiarity and intimacy born not only of shared genes but of shared experiences and loss. In that instant, he knows that John is right, that people survive beyond death in those that they leave behind, because he can feel the woman’s character, her ways and her love, decompose within John, fertilizing what an atheist would call the spirit; the intellect, memories, habits and conscience, much as her body makes the earth richer. Sherlock does not have faith in religion, in reincarnation, the afterlife and the soul, not because of what these ideas conclude, but because of how these are reached. He belongs to the world of science, and believes in its premises, not because he lacks _faith_ ; that is not something that only religion has claim to, for science also supports itself in unseen forces, in particles and theories that support themselves in what they affect, instead of what the senses can capture, but because of the process upon which these stand; in the tireless testing of reactions, the control of variables, both hidden and tangible, and, most importantly, of the extrication of the human presence from these; to observe how the world works apart from human want or ideals, and to not claim people protagonists, but simply one more entity in a complex world. Science does not seek to comfort, only to explain, and Sherlock finds solace in this. He remembers a summer’s day when he was a child, lying on the grass, and a cat having stretched beside him, basking in the sun, and he himself thinking, _I am a cat_. This simple phrase did not suggest he was feline, but that he was composed of the same material as that being, that he was no more and no less than organic matter, had no more importance than any other creature simply because his cognitive function was beyond the capability of an animal. That the world, or fate, or an unseen entity, did not have a plan for him, that he was free within the limits of physics and biology and chemistry. In his childish, but already sharp and intelligent mind, he was calmed by the thought that his life was not a test for an ultimate justice, or a trial for a better or infinitely worse eternity, but that his existence was _it_ , was the most important thing there was, that it was everything, just as the cat’s existence was. That a rock could ‘outlive’ him, and could have, ultimately, more impact on the world than him, did not trouble Sherlock, but instead gave him space to breathe, to just be, to be able to judge himself as he saw fit. But when he looks on John’s broken family of two, and sees the missing piece, he can understand what his friend spoke of when explaining Mary’s presence beyond the grave, for a human captures perfectly the phrase, _the whole is more than the sum of its parts_ ; that the combination of organs and bones and neurons are more than a simple addition of these fragments, completing into something coherent and alive, and the impact people have on each other transcends a simple contagion of chemistry or biology. Though supported by blood and hormones and brain matter, by Hebbian learning, conditioning, and even more intricate patterns of functioning synapses and action potentials, humans learn from each other through such a complicated pattern of action and thought and emotion that it seems more than that, so that a mere memory or intangible idea can capture a mind and influence a life, and so even when the physical body of somebody is no longer in function, their presence is still alive and well, for it still has impact on those it leaves behind, and how can someone claim the complete death of something when that occurs?

As he watches John and Samson, Sherlock feels an old, long unused emotion, which had been consciously alive only in his teenage years, when the heart he claims to have lost was still beating and vulnerable. It is not the feeling of being alone, but a much more corrosive loneliness; that of being with people you don’t belong with, that don’t see or accept you. When he was young, and he was in the aftermath of someone’s vitriolic rant, or a muttered “freak” after what Sherlock though was a simple observation, it would feel as if he were made of one material, and the rest of the world of another; one tin, and the other woven cloth, a metaphor born from the sensation that his very essence was wrong, or at least different enough that the disparity caused an inability to make any sort of human connection, and left him bereft of company or understanding, and stunted his ability to empathise, or to care, and therefore made him use logic as a crutch to function in life. When he was little, he would wonder if Mycroft, at least, felt the same, but his brother, if indeed made of tin, was adept enough at pretending to be cotton, a fact that tormented and infuriated Sherlock in a defensive rationalization in order to explain his own solitude.

Before the fall, he had never felt this way around John, and that this feeling has awaked now is painful, an ache beyond the physical, much deeper and crueller, and something he isn’t prepared to deal with, being someone used to broken bones and bruises, but astonishingly ignorant, as John had once expressed, of some things. But in that moment he can no longer lie to himself. There is only one logical explanation for the effect John has on him, for why he feels so bereft, and so alone in his company, for only caring, that damnable disadvantage, can produce the sensation of loss. The magnitude of his despair can only be explained if it is mirrored in his feelings for the other man, the reason for which he is here, beside that cruel and shipless ocean, instead of ensconced amidst the alleys of London, with its streetlights casting halos in the misty nights. He knows then that he must make a decision; he has never been a coward, or even a cautious man, and he sees no point in staying in this town out of some ridiculous pining after having fought for a whole, long decade to come back to a man who has no space left for him in his life. He is done with waiting, and with indulging his self-pity, with self destruction, with solitude. It is not that he has changed absolutely, but in this, in John, he must be resolute; to take the uncertainty of the pill, or the deadliness of the gun.

As he thinks this, sunken deep within his own mind, he is pulled out by the sound of John’s voice calling him toward them, a hand beckoning closer, and in a detached manner Sherlock does so, his feet heavy on the sand. But he is met with smiles, and Samson pulls at the sleeve of his coat, the contact surprising Sherlock, who has constructed his own solitude in his imagination so solidly that he is astonished to find it just a mirage made by a parched and starved soul.

“Help us fly the kite,” Samson incites, and Sherlock takes it from his small, gloved hands, and puts his face to the wind, taking a few steps towards it, trying to calculate an appropriate algorithm for distance and speed given the velocity of the air.

“Stop thinking,” John says, and Sherlock looks at him. “I know what you’re doing, but just enjoy it. Fly the kite.” Sherlock stares at John for a moment before nodding, and in his second attempt the kite soars upwards, feigning a dip before taking flight. Samson laughs, and trots after Sherlock, who, after a few seconds of watching the red diamond move with the wind, hands the plastic handle on which the string is rolled to the boy, who takes it happily off his hands, and runs forward, the kite following in the sky. Sherlock goes to stand beside John, who watches his son lunge across the sand happily, and then turns the open expression towards Sherlock, and it does not change, does not close off or guard or sadden. From the depths of Sherlock’s memory, a ghost from a drug high past, a phrase trembles and takes flight inside him, mimicking the movements of the kite; _If it was your last day on earth, who would you think about?_ In that moment, Sherlock feels released, as if he, too, was unwound string, a body left to take to the sky.

“I don’t want to leave,” Sherlock says suddenly, and without the context of his thoughts and doubts, he does not know if John will understand, who watches him amidst the wind.

“No one is asking you to leave,” John says after a pause, and Sherlock feels frustrated, because that is not enough.

“I know no one is _asking_ me, but-”

“I don’t want you to leave either,” John interrupts, though his voice is soft. Sherlock watches him, sees him, his depth and his tremulous waters. He moves to stand in front of him, looking down at that familiar face, which does not back down or shy away from the proximity, and makes his decision. He dips his head to press his lips against John’s, a simple touch, a kiss which is sudden and without much preamble, just as their first meeting, case, kill. Sherlock pulls away, and opens his eyes, and John is smiling. And that is how their first kiss is to be; simple and sudden, an, _I do not want to be lonely when I’m with you._ A, _Stay._

So Sherlock stays.

 

...**...

 

It is night time, and the dark is cold outside, but Sherlock sits on a kitchen stool, warmed by the interior of John’s home. Since their kiss earlier that day Sherlock has thought much about the matter, and though he has reached no particular conclusion, he has calmed himself in his resolutions. The needs of any particular man can be many and varied and always changeable, and Sherlock finds that his life has indeed changed an inordinate amount since meeting John. Typical of the ex-soldier, he has proved many of Sherlock's hypotheses wrong, not about the nature of things, but of himself. He remembers the case of the Chinese mafia, and seeing John tied to a chair, a gun pointed at him and Sarah, he remembers the night at the pool, and John’s dead voice as he repeated Moriarty’s words, the way Sherlock had not been able to stop himself from ripping the explosives from John’s body. He remembers the last moments before the fall, the invisible sniper aiming at John, and all he had done to prevent that. A kiss seems nothing, really, compared to all that, to those sensations, to those sudden fears of loss and feelings of having, _having_ to protect John, or perish trying. And yet he knows there is importance in that soft contact as well, in the need he feels to trace the patterns on John’s skin, his scar and his cheek and his military hair. It is all part of a whole which is more than the sum of its parts.

John walks into the living room from ensuring his son is tucked in tight, and smiles tentatively, an expression which brings youth to his face. Sherlock stands up and says,

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you all day.” John looks down, running a hand through his hair as if embarrassed, but he doesn’t blush, and laughs softly, moving closer to Sherlock.

“You know, normal people can’t usually say things like that with a straight face,” he teases, stopping so close that it seems to Sherlock that he can feel the presence of John’s warmth.

“I have it on good authority that I’m not normal,” Sherlock says softly in a hushed, night time voice.

“No, normal doesn’t suit you,” John replies in the same, shared tone. “Nor me.” They stare at each other, a tense, electric moment, before John leans forward, a tide on parched earth, a sigh, a mixture of hot breaths, and then there are lips pressing, moving, opening to more intimate places. There is a slide of tongues, wet, warm, alive, and Sherlock, for once, can barely think. Hands come up to search, to find, to draw even closer. Closer. A press of bodies and John corners Sherlock against the kitchen counter, and Sherlock wraps his arms around John, taking, finally, what is his, what has always been rightfully his.

Outside, a nightingale calls, and it is pitch black on the wind conquered beach, but where John and Sherlock move, there is light.

 

...**...

 

Sherlock has spent the last half-week in London, and John smiles at him in greeting on his return, opening the door to his home at once to let Sherlock in.

“Have fun in London?” John asks, returning to the kitchen where the scents of the cooking dinner are filling the house.

“Fun? Well, I did see Anderson. He’s recently divorced and is going bald. That was entertaining,” Sherlock says, sitting down on one of the stools after taking off his coat and gloves to watch John.

“You’re terrible,” John says, but his laugh bellies the comment.

“Quite. In any case, I sorted all my errands,” Sherlock goes on, and John raises his eyebrows in question. “I rented a small flat. It is not equipped with Mrs. Hudson, unfortunately, so it is regrettably sub-par, but it will have to do,” Sherlock says. John pauses in his stirring, looking at Sherlock guardedly.

“A flat?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock assents. “I also stopped by The Yard, made sure Lestrade’s name is cleared once and for all, though he hasn’t done badly for himself despite the tarnish. I did manage to use the false accusations as leverage to get them to allow me access to cold and particularly interesting cases, so I will start my detective work again.” There is a long pause, with only the sound of the bubbling sauce and the scraping of the wooden spoon to fill it.

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” John says finally, but he sounds quiet and subdued. Sherlock frowns.

“You’re upset. What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, and John shakes his head, more to clear it than a negation.

“No, I’m...I’m happy for you. You’re getting your life back together, I know how much you love London,” John says quietly. Sherlock stays still for a moment, before threading his fingers together.

“No, you misunderstand me. I will be going to London when needed, but I will mostly be solving cold cases from here. I will be staying,” Sherlock says. John turns down the fire on the hob, and turns to look at Sherlock, wiping his hand on a cloth. “I’ve also been looking for a flat here, though, to be perfectly honest, I did hope to move in here in the near future,” Sherlock goes on. John stares at him, but a small smile appears on his face.

“You do, do you?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to say anything. I believe it’s what people call _rushing things_.”

“Well, we are good at that. I believe I killed a man for you barely three days into knowing you,” John says softly, and Sherlock smiles.

“That was a fantastic night, wasn’t it?” He says, and John laughs, moving slowly and leaning over the counter. Sherlock meets him half way, kissing John back through their smiles, and feels so utterly calm and at home that he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching from the hallway until it is too late.

“Uh, ew,” Samson says, and John practically leaps back, turning to look at his son.

“Samson! We, uh, we were-”

“I know what kissing is, dad,” Samson says, looking amused.

“Ah, yes, well, maybe we should talk about this,” John says, and Samson shrugs, holding a large book against his chest.

“Like it wasn’t obvious. I may be seven but I’m not stupid,” Samson replies, walking up to sit on the stool besides Sherlock, who looks equally amused.

“I believe your father is concerned that you may not be familiar with homosexual relationships,” Sherlock says, to which John groans as if in pain.

“Sandra has two dads. They kiss and they’re really nice. Their house is amazing. And I like Sherlock. He doesn’t make me eat my peas,” Samson says in a ridiculous simplification of the subject, but his utter lack of upset seems to calm John, who stands there awkwardly. “Look, Sherlock,” Samson goes on, as if they hadn’t resolved a troubling subject in less than a minute, “I found a book on bees in the library. It’s won a prize,” he says, setting the book down on the counter and sliding it towards Sherlock, who opens it and flips through is curiously.

“Hm, I haven’t looked into apiculture in quite a while. Seems they have made some interesting advances,” he says, and John watches Sherlock and his son discuss the insects with a growing smile before turning back to the food.

“Maybe we can get some!” Samson says.

“That is an excellent idea,” Sherlock replies, pointing at a viable species. John turns his head to look at them.

“No way. No bees,” John says.

“But dad! Why not?” Samson whines, and Sherlock looks like he’s about to do the same.

“Because they’re...creepy,” John says, and Sherlock and Samson gasp. “And dangerous! And since when are you interested in bees?”

“Sherlock taught me about them the other week. They sound cool. We can make honey!”

“You don’t like honey.”

“Yes I do!”

“Doesn’t a dog sound like a better idea?”

“Dogs are boring,” Samson says, and John turns to looks at him in astonishment, before looking at Sherlock accusingly.

“Hey,” Sherlock says, holding up his hands defensively, “It’s not my fault you have such an intelligent child.” Samson beams at the praise, and the two of them are lost to John as they return to the book. He shakes his head, but Sherlock catches the wide smile on his face.

This is what it must be like, he realizes, to feel part of a family.

 

...**...

 

That night, after Samson has gone to sleep, John indulges in a glass of wine as he sits beside Sherlock on the couch. They barely talk, but the silence is soft and tepid, and they float upon its calm waters. John catches Sherlock staring at him and smiles, the expression not wavering as Sherlock's long fingers remove the wineglass from John’s hand and places it on the coffee table. In the dim light, in that quiet intimacy, Sherlock traces John’s features with his hand, the old lines and the new, mapping John out, leaving invisible fingerprints as if they were markings of need and want. John closes his eyes and lets his eyelashes to be fluttered by pale skin, the bridge of his nose crossed, the lines of his lips drawn. There are no words for this moment, which has taken so long to be arrived to, no need for promises or assurances. It is just John and Sherlock, men of action, not speech. Sherlock leans forward and kisses John, first his cheek, his jaw line, and then his mouth, their lips chapped and dry, and Sherlock moistens them with a tongue which is met by John’s as he presses forward, a hand coming up to bury itself in Sherlock's curls, and then down to the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. Sherlock feels himself tremble, as if overwhelmed by the touch, but he wants more.

“Bed?” Sherlock says, and he does not mean it to sound like a question, but it does. John breaks the kiss and looks at Sherlock searchingly for a moment, saying nothing, but he stands up, pulling Sherlock with him, and they walk in shivering anticipation to John’s bedroom, the door closing behind them with a hushed slide.

“We have to be quiet,” John whispers, and Sherlock has no qualms with that, agreeing with another kiss, deeper, fuller, and lets himself be pushed onto the bed, lets himself be captured between John’s hands and his knees. They drag the kiss along, slow and filling, letting their hands explore, parting clothing away, undoing buttons clumsily with shut eyes. Sherlock has to sit up for a moment so that his shirt can be removed and discarded, and his body can’t seem to stop shaking as John slides his bare hands across his torso, his thumb pressing against a nipple, rounding it softly, and Sherlock gasps into John, all warm air, all warm skin, and John kisses the sound right out of him. Sherlock slides John’s shirt away from him, and feels the muscles move in his arms, returns to the broad shoulders, squeezing them for a moment, searching for something to keep him afloat, and then releases, letting himself drown. John moves down, lets his lips and his tongue follow the pale skin of a throat which holds the soft noises Sherlock is making, lets them fall on collarbones, their sharp and delicate line, down to where ribs guard precious treasure, where panted breath struggles, and a beating heart races. John explores Sherlock's scars, acquired in that long decade, as Sherlock murmurs their origin, though John has seen enough of wartime to guess. Sherlock threads his fingers through John’s hair, encouraging him, and lets himself fall open, unprotected, at a terrible disadvantage. In truth, these touches are simple, and who would have thought that anything with Sherlock would be simple? Maybe underneath the surface there are storms brewing, an intricate and complex pattern of loose ends tangling with each other, but right now, it is simple. It is Sherlock asking questions with his eyes, and John responding with his mouth, a, _yes, I will have you, all of you, I will take no more than you can give me, and no less._

John dips lower, and he does not have to ask, just unbuttons the trousers, sliding them down, following with his lips, brushing them on the fine thigh hairs, on the knobbly and dry knees, the arch of a foot, before removing his own. With the pants he is more careful, more devote, tracing just under the edge, and Sherlock slides his feet against the mattress, pleading without words. John nuzzles the tented erection, breathing over it, and Sherlock arches his neck, trying to muffle a whine. The pants are pushed down, down, across knees and curling toes, and off. Sherlock watches with heated eyes as John hops out of his own, laughing quietly as the other man almost falls over, and John shares in the amusement through his teased “shut up”. John goes to resume his position, but Sherlock pulls him up.

“I want to be close to you,” he says against John’s ear, and John closes his eyes tight, pressing his lips against Sherlock's; hard, consuming, letting his teeth bite briefly because he _wants_. He stretches to the bedside table and grabs a small pot of Vaseline. Sherlock takes it from him, and draws the palm lines of John’s right hand with it, across life, and love, and what the future holds, for those that believe, before kissing the centre, pressing his lips to smear the balm. When John is released, he takes both their cocks in one hand, and they both gasp in unison. Sherlock lifts his knees to press against John, and opens his eyes to watch him, the reddened cheeks and open mouth, the sweat dampening the hair on his temples. He tries desperately to breathe through the slide of John’s hand, the feel of his cock pressed against his own, but looses the battle to another kiss.

“Inside me, I want you...” Sherlock pants, and John tempers the pace of his hand, though he does not stop.

“Let’s take this slow, Sherlock,” John suggests, but Sherlock shakes his head, his curls sliding against the white of the duvet.

“Just your fingers, just your fingers, John,” he says. After a moment, John dips again to kiss him. Sherlock takes the Vaseline and spreads it on his right hand, and then John dips his middle finger in it, before the pot is left on the sheets. Sherlock takes both their cocks in hand, his knees lifting to hook over John’s shoulders. John slides his arm between them, forearm pressing against his stomach as, slowly, he lets his finger slide into Sherlock, who closes his eyes at the sensation of John stretching him slightly. After a moment of distraction, Sherlock continues stroking their cocks, and it is not long before John is filling Sherlock with a second finger, and when John pushes three fingers in, Sherlock arches his back, making a muffled keening noise normally applicable to dying animals, but now perfectly in context with a breaking man, and he says, “What a strange sensation.”

“Strange good?” John asks in a pant, and there is a pause as the fingers push in further, finding the bundle of nerves, stroking it, slightly awkward in their current position.

“Yes, good,” Sherlock whispers, and John smiles, and as Sherlock looks at him he knows that John is the same as him, that he is in love. John does not fall in love in that instant, no, that was a voyage embarked long ago, but in that moment, with Sherlock under him and around him and gripping, trusting him, truthful and open and his, John feels the affection like a living thing inside him, a part of Sherlock that has untangled from him and made a home inside John, built a bee-hive of complex thoughts and feelings to create a coherent whole, and the thick honey of it fills John so sweetly, so warmly. John kisses Sherlock's knee, and if only he could kiss his bones, the capillaries on his lungs, the arteries around his heart, he would do so. But this is enough.

Climax hits Sherlock first, and his spine arches as his mouth releases a gasp of air shaped in John’s name. John removes his hand, and Sherlock's knees fall to the bed, trembling. After a moment he regains his senses enough to resume stroking John, who leans over him, leaving kisses that are more like hot breath on Sherlock's lips before he, too, comes, and Sherlock swallows all noise into his mouth.

John falls beside Sherlock, and they lie there for a while, resting, John’s front warm against Sherlock's side. The waters calm, the tide subsides, and John presses his lips against Sherlock's neck and says,

“Stay.”

 

...**...

 

It is an almost windless day, and the two Watsons and Sherlock take the opportunity to spend another day at the beach. John and Sherlock sit on the sand by the dunes, watching Samson play by the shoreline, a dog from one of the dog-walkers taking interest and joining the boy.

“I should cut you a key,” John says without preamble. Sherlock turns his head to look at him and smiles.

“That seems reasonable,” he replies, and there is a moment of content silence.

“I don’t think this is going to be easy, Sherlock. You and I...I’m not saying I don’t want this, because I really do, but it won’t be easy. And there are responsibilities. Samson, he’s my priority. But he does like you,” John says. Sherlock tilts his head in agreement, understanding what John is saying. Social situations, relationships, they have never come easy to Sherlock, but he is not one to back down from a challenge and he knows that his is what he wants. He has tried being alone, both in London and in wilder cities, has tried friendship, but that is no longer enough, and he will fight for what he wants.

“Easy? Easy is boring,” Sherlock says, placing a hand over John’s where it rests on the cool sand. John smiles, turning his hand over and lacing their fingers together.

“I’m glad you came back,” John says, and Sherlock finds that he is in complete agreement, that in this exact moment he is precisely where he wants to be, whether the world were ending or not.

Silence falls, and Sherlock turns once more to look at the water. For once the tides are still, the waves are calm, and in the distance a pair of fishing boats sway on the endless blue. 


End file.
